Hiding Places

She finds them in the places I walk past—
a hollow in a tree,
a teacup just the right size for a bunny,
a boot where a mouse might stay warm,
a flower folded softly around a butterfly.

She points them out one by one,
certain she is right.

And standing beside her,
I think she is.

The world feels different
when seen from where she stands.
Leaves—roofs.
Blankets—burrows.
Flowers—rooms for wings.

Nothing seems lonely.
Nothing seems too small.

Everywhere she looks,
something small has found its home.
Everything belongs.

I see the spaces between things.
The quiet corners.
The little shelters tucked into ordinary days.

And she keeps discovering small doors
in places I would have walked past.

So I stop.
I look with her.
I see one too.

The world feels softer.
Smaller.
Kinder.

It wasn't in a flower,
or a hollow log,
or under a wing.

It was beside her,
in the small, quiet world
she is opening for me.

Perhaps that is why I follow.
Not to find the rabbit,
or the mouse,
or the small bird
pressed still behind the grass.
But for the little while I kneel beside her,
the world feels small enough to hold us both.