The Little Lamb’s Counting Sheep Dream

Luma could not sleep. The barn was hush hush, except for straw whispering and Mama Ewe humming. "Try counting sheep," Mama murmured. Luma blinked. "But I am sheep," she whispered, puzzled. That sounded funny tonight.

She tucked her hooves close and began. "One sheep." Nothing happened. "Two sheep." A cricket answered, "Chirp." Luma frowned at the ceiling. "Three sheep?" Suddenly the hay smelled like honey and rain and moonlight too.

A soft baa floated over her bed. Then another. Little round voices bounced gently. "Did somebody count us?" asked a sheep. Luma sat up. "Maybe me," she said. "I am practicing before sleep comes tonight."

The barn door opened by itself, not with a creak, but a sleepy sigh. Outside, moonlight puddled on the grass. "Come count properly," said the sheep. "We wander when bored and nibble silly things sometimes."

Luma stepped out. "One," she counted, touching the nearest voice. "Two," she counted beside a daisy patch. At "three," a sheep sneezed petals everywhere. Luma giggled so hard she hiccupped right into the quiet night.

"Four," said Luma, feeling braver. "Five," said someone behind her. "That is my number!" Luma protested. A tiny sheep bowed. "Sorry. I get excited around numbers." Everyone nodded as if this made perfect sense.

They reached a hill that rose like a sleeping belly. "Six," Luma called. Six sheep bounced up the slope. One rolled back down, laughing, "I forgot my bounce!" Luma laughed too until her worry loosened.

At the top waited a gate made of yawn. It stretched wide and wobbly. "Seven sheep may pass," said the gate. Luma counted carefully. The seventh sheep wore a proud grin and gave a wink.

"What about me?" Luma asked. The gate gave a soft burp. "You count the counters, dear." That sounded important. Luma stood taller and counted eight shadows skipping through silver grass under the listening moon above.

Beyond the gate, a river hummed lullabies. Nine sheep floated across on lily pads, bumping noses. "Boop," said one. "Boop," said another. Luma whispered, "Nine boops," and smiled so wide her cheeks felt warm.

A fish popped up. "Are you counting sheep or splashes?" Luma thought. "Sheep first. Splashes later." The fish flipped happily. Ten sheep shook water from their ears, making rainbows tremble across the sleepy river air.

The path turned into a pillow-soft meadow. Luma counted eleven sheep making nest shapes in the grass. Her eyelids felt heavy. "Not yet," she mumbled. "I must finish my counting job for everyone here tonight."

Twelve sheep found a teacup, big as a tub. They climbed in and pretended it was soup. "Baa broth," someone announced. Luma snorted. "That sounds too tickly to drink but very good for giggles."

A breeze carried the smell of clover cake. Thirteen sheep marched toward it, then stopped to nap mid-step. Luma counted their snores. "Thirteen," she whispered, softer than crumbs falling onto a plate after supper.

Soon the meadow became a kitchen in the sky. Fourteen sheep stirred starlight pudding. "Taste?" asked Cook Sheep. Luma licked the spoon. It tasted like warm milk and happy yawns with a cinnamon sigh inside.

"Fifteen," Luma said, counting pudding bowls. One bowl counted back, "One lamb." Luma jumped, then smiled. "Correct." The bowl looked pleased. Dreams, she decided, were strange but polite when you remembered to say please.

A cloud carriage rolled near, pulled by sixteen sheep singing off-key. "Home?" asked the driver. Luma’s tummy squeezed. "Not yet. I want to be sleepy, not lonely." The singing softened like wool around her heart.

Seventeen sheep gathered close without crowding. "We can count beside you," one said. Luma breathed in, then out. The night no longer felt too big. It felt roomy and kind with space for small worries.

They sailed past a clockflower chiming dream-dong. Eighteen sheep bowed to each tick. Luma bowed too, very slowly. "Good manners make minutes sleepy," said the driver. Luma believed him because the minutes began yawning softly.

Nineteen sheep knitted a blanket from quiet. They tucked it around the carriage wheels. The ride slowed. Luma’s thoughts, usually hopping, curled down. "Twenty soon," she murmured, almost dreaming but still holding her count.

The twentieth sheep waited beside a little door of blue sleep. "Last one," it said gently. Luma swallowed. "If I finish, will everyone disappear?" The sheep shook its head. "No friends can become dreams instead."

"Twenty," Luma whispered. The door opened like a smile. Inside was her own bed, waiting. Mama Ewe’s humming drifted through. Luma felt glad, and just a little proud of her brave counting heart tonight.

She climbed in. The dream sheep tiptoed around her bed, not making even one squeak. "Good night, counters," Luma sighed. "Good night, counter," they answered. Her ears softened with sleep and her smile settled still.

In the morning, Luma woke under a quiet sun. "Did counting help?" asked Mama Ewe. Luma yawned. "Yes, but the sheep needed counting too." Mama chuckled. So did the barn in its cozy wooden way.