"Do you think the clouds ever get tired of floating, Barnaby?" Leo asked, his voice barely a whisper against the rustle of the wind.
Leo hopped down, his feet hitting the ground with a soft thud. He buried his hands in Barnaby’s thick mane, inhaling the scent of dried cedar and summer air. They walked back together, a boy and his golden shadow, leaving the fence to guard the hill until the sun returned. 5429006_035.jpg
They sat there for a long time, watching the shadows of the oaks stretch like long fingers across the valley. Leo talked about the things he couldn't tell the kids at school—how he was still a little afraid of the dark, and how he wanted to build a boat that could sail on the grass. Barnaby listened with the patient, unjudging wisdom that only old dogs possess. "Do you think the clouds ever get tired of floating, Barnaby
As the sky turned a deep, bruised purple, Leo felt a gentle nudge. Barnaby was standing now, his head cocked toward the farmhouse where a single yellow light had just flickered on in the kitchen window. It was the signal. They walked back together, a boy and his