One night Little Weng couldn’t sleep.

And a light in the kitchen meant his father was awake too.

Peeking around the door, Weng saw tomorrow’s vegetables

all over the table.

Then he heard his father’s voice.

“Think how many rainfalls made each one grow.”

Weng went barefoot into the

kitchen, climbed into his father’s lap. “Sixteen?” he said.

“Hard to say,” replied his father, lifting a tomato to his son’s ear,

“but everything inside has entered from the roots.”

The windows were violet when blind Mr. Fun

carried his son back to bed.

Day was in night’s arms.