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"Do you think the clouds ever get tired of floating, Barnaby?" Leo asked, his voice barely a whisper against the rustle of the wind.

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. 5429006_035.jpg

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. "Do you think the clouds ever get tired of floating, Barnaby

If the image depicts something else, please describe the details (the characters, the setting, or the mood), and I’ll be happy to write a story that fits perfectly! Barnaby listened with the patient, unjudging wisdom that

Barnaby let out a soft huff, his tail thumping once against the dry earth. To Leo, that was a definitive "no." Clouds had work to do, just like the bees in the clover and the hawks circling the ridge.