Etna stood under a blanket of stars, enormous and dark, with a little smoke above its head.
Everyone thought the volcano was always strong. The villages looked at it. The trees grew on it. The snow rested on it. The clouds passed near it as if greeting a giant.
But that evening Etna was tired.
“I cannot be tired,” it muttered. “I am a volcano.”
A small cloud shaped like a pillow floated down and stopped near the summit.
“Who said volcanoes cannot be tired?”
Etna released a tiny puff of smoke. “People expect me to stand tall.”
“You can stand tall and yawn,” said the cloud.
“I do not know how.”
The cloud settled softly against the crater.
“Begin with the sky. Open slowly.”
Etna tried. It did not roar. It did not shake. It simply let out a long, warm breath.
Haaaa.
The stars seemed to move a little farther apart, giving it room.
“That was a yawn,” said the cloud.
“It felt like a small eruption without noise.”
“Exactly.”
The animals on the slopes heard nothing frightening. A fox turned in its sleep. An owl blinked. In a house below, a child looking out the window whispered, “Etna is resting.”
The volcano liked those words.
For many nights after, the pillow-cloud returned. Etna learned to yawn when the day had been full of wind, visitors, snow, and sun. Each yawn made the smoke softer and the mountain quieter.
It did not become less strong. In fact, it became steadier.
And when children asked why a cloud sometimes sat on Etna’s head, grandparents answered, “That is its pillow. Even mountains sleep better when they allow themselves to rest.”