High over the hill there was a small cloud.
In the morning she was white and light, and she went wherever the wind went.
She floated over the pond. The ducks looked up. "Hello, cloud," said the ducks.
She floated over the field. The cows looked up. "Hello, cloud," said the cows, slowly, because cows say everything slowly.
She floated over the town, over the roofs and the washing lines and one boy on a red bike.
All day the small cloud carried her rain. By teatime she had gone grey. Carrying rain is heavy work.
"I would like to put this down," said the small cloud.
So she stopped over the garden at the end of the lane, and she let the rain go.
Down it came. Pat, pat, pat on the leaves. Pat, pat, pat on the shed roof. Pat, pat, pat on an empty snail shell by the wall.
The garden drank all of it.
And the small cloud got lighter. And lighter. And lighter still.
By the time the last drop fell she was as thin as a feather.
The wind was going home too. It carried her down to the top of the hill and laid her along it, like a blanket over the grass.
That is where clouds sleep. Low down, close to the sheep.
In the morning the garden would be green, and the snail shell would be full, and the small cloud would go up into the blue again.
But that is the morning. This is now.
Now she is asleep on the hill.