I stood in the tall grass at the edge of the field, chewing lazily under the summer sky. The little white cottage glowed warmly, its dark roof sharp against the blue. In the garden, bright daisies and red blooms danced among the green, with flat grey stepping stones leading to the wooden door.

Then, right there by the path, the grass parted. A brown, velvety creature pushed up from the earth—round face, bright eyes, tiny white paws. A mole, blinking in the sudden light, looking rather startled by his own boldness.

I tilted my head, ears flicking. He patted the soil neatly around his hole, as if tidying his doorstep after a long journey. Behind the left window of the cottage, a woman in green stood watching, one hand lightly on the sill, a gentle smile on her face. She looked delighted by the little intruder in her summer garden.

The mole never noticed her. He was too busy with his patch of earth and the overwhelming brightness of the day.

I gave a soft, low moo of amusement. Such small adventures happened every day if you stood still enough to see them. The sun warmed my back, the flowers nodded, and the world felt perfectly right