Otter woke up with nothing to do, and it felt wonderful.
"Today," he said, stretching his long brown body, "I will not hurry."
He slid down the muddy bank into the river. Splash. The water was cool and clear, and it carried him gently along.
Otter rolled onto his back, folded his paws on his tummy, and floated.
Above him, the sky was pale blue, and a few clouds drifted by. One looked like a rabbit. One looked like a teapot. One looked like nothing at all, just a soft white puff.
"Hello, clouds," said Otter.
The river bent to the left. Otter went with it.
A heron stood in the shallows, tall and still on one leg. "Where are you off to?" she asked.
"Wherever the river goes," said Otter.
"That is a fine plan," said the heron, and went back to being still.
The river bent to the right. There, a family of ducklings paddled in a line behind their mother, peep, peep, peep, and Otter floated beside them for a while, and they all agreed the water was lovely.
He passed a fallen log with turtles sunning on it, sitting in a row like a small, patient audience. He passed a patch of tall reeds that rustled in the breeze. He passed a dragonfly, sitting on a stick, as shiny as a jewel.
The sun slid lower. The light turned gold, then pink.
Otter was not hurrying. But the river was, just a little, and soon it carried him around one last bend, and there was his own home, a snug den in the bank under the roots of an old willow.
"Oh," said Otter. "The river knew the way."
He climbed out, shook his fur, and slipped inside. The den was dry and warm. He curled up into a tight, round otter-ball, with his tail across his nose.
Outside, the river went on, glug, glug, glug, past the willow, past the reeds, on and on into the dusk.
"Goodnight, river," said Otter.
And the river sang him to sleep.