Chinese-born illustrator Guojing made her publishing debut in 2015 with The Only Child, a 112-page wordless book that won widespread acclaim and earned a spot on numerous best-of-the-year lists. Exploring an incident from her childhood, she delved into themes of being lost and lonely and finding one’s way home. Now, with Stormy, a wordless book about a homeless dog, Guojing has struck gold again as she explores similar themes with equal emotional resonance, albeit for a slightly younger audience.

The story opens as an adorable, scruffy ball of fluff sleeps under a park bench. A young woman approaches, causing the pup to scamper off. The next day she brings a tennis ball, which the dog cautiously sniffs and finally takes. Guojing shows each move of the dog and woman in a series of moody graphic panels, highlighting the deserted, desolate landscape, the dog’s curiosity mixed with fear and the woman’s quiet patience until she finally leaves to go home. Next, a full-page illustration shows the dog sitting with the ball on a dark, cloudy night, his small, quivering body backlit by moonlight.

On the next visit, the woman and dog actively play with the ball in a lively sequence of panels, and a full-spread illustration shows them gazing at each other from several yards apart, both gloriously backlit by the sun’s golden glow. They’ve made a connection, and in ensuing masterful scenes, Guojing shows how each tries to reach out to the other during the course of a wildly stormy night. Their efforts are, at first, unsuccessful, which makes their eventual reunion in the city all the more sweet.

A master of both mood and lighting, Guojing proves once again that she’s an expert at translating her own heartfelt emotions to the page in a style that can only be described as beautifully cinematic. Deserving of worthy comparisons to wordless classics such as Raymond Briggs’ The Snowman and Chris Raschka’s A Ball for Daisy, Stormy is a timeless treasure.

Being human comes with many perplexing questions. But sometimes asking those questions opens the doors to a path, if not a straightforward answer. Written by Kobi Yamada and illustrated by Gabriella Barouch, Maybe is an inspiration tucked inside an adventure, perfect for readers of any age who may be asking, “What next?”

Loosely following the journey of a little girl, who is fancifully clad in a leafy “bird” cap, Maybe’s art is intrinsic to its message. Barouch’s vibrant, detailed illustrations are unusual and delightful. Dreamlike and intriguing, her art defies convention; mushrooms may loom as large as trees, and glaciers might fit comfortably in your hand. Pulling readers further into her journey, the little girl—more a reader’s companion than a character—helps create the fantasy, watering giant flowers, building a tower of houses. In a final lyrical nod, Barouch carries elements from page to page, culminating with an image that will leave readers smiling.

Maybe is an invitation instead of a lecture, as Yamada delivers his message with simple, brief statements that keep the story moving. And while the book’s images are imagined and invented, there is honesty in each depiction. When the little girl fails, a scribble hangs over her head. She climbs inside a storybook and befriends the unfamiliar.

It would be a disservice to qualify Maybe as just a children’s book. Children of all ages have dreams pulling them along, destinations and goals to meet along the path. But what truly matters is who we are along that journey.

A bundled-up child of indeterminate gender, perhaps about 10 or so, rides a big-city bus on a snowy winter’s day and upon departure proclaims, “I know what it’s like to be small in the city.” This city seems dark, cold and not very friendly, and thus a tone of worry, uncertainty and intrigue runs throughout Sidney Smith’s captivating Small in the City.

Nonetheless, the unaccompanied narrator trudges through the streets with a sense of purpose and determination, seemingly fearless, although admitting that the busy streets “can make your brain feel like there’s too much stuff in it.”

“But I know you,” the child adds. “You’ll be all right.”

Offering advice on getting around safely, the narrator takes readers on a tour, warning against dark alleys and scary dogs while pointing out safe places to hide and spots offering comfort―a hot steam vent “that smells like summer,” a friendly fishmonger and a house where piano music is always playing.

Smith’s ink, watercolor and gouache illustrations perfectly portray the intricate, busy scramble of snow-covered city streets, while the narrator’s forward stride and yellow and orange boots act as a warm beacon on a stormy day. Some scenes are blurry, others razor-sharp. On one spread, a montage of vignettes shows the myriad sights that can seem an assault to the senses, from barbed wire and gleaming skyscrapers to warning traffic lights and crowds of people.

As the snow falls deeper and deeper, readers realize that the narrator is addressing their lost cat, all the while searching and putting up “lost” posters. Finally the child reaches home, falling into the arms of awaiting mom. The narrator hopes for the cat’s safe return while repeating the book’s comforting refrain, “But I know you. You will be all right.”

Small in the City is an unusual, useful parable, offering hope and reassurance for any young reader in the midst of a worrisome or frightening situation, whether it’s a missing pet or something else―or simply life itself.

Newbery Medal winner Patricia MacLachlan tells the story of a barn, built in 1919, in this warm, joyous celebration of family.

The story is told from the point of view of a grown man, looking back fondly on the construction of the barn when he was 5 years old. It was “built by townspeople: fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, grandmothers and grandfathers, and friends.” The boy stands out on this rust-colored palette with his bright red hat. He recalls the sensory details of that time—the hot sun, the sounds of laughter as he played with his friends, the “butterscotch floors” of the barn and more—and remembers the moment his father lost his gold wedding band. MacLachlan’s use of vivid, figurative language makes this lengthy story sing (the “ice-blue wings” of swallows “flashing in the sunlight,” and hammering that “echoed in the valley like the beat of music”).

Seasons pass throughout many years, and the boy grows, eventually marrying a childhood friend in the barn. New children are born. The barn remains, steadfast. One day, the boy-now-man, still in his red cap, finds his father’s wedding ring, “safe for all these years in the barn.” He hangs it from a string, right underneath a photo taken the day of the barn raising.

Kenard Pak’s soft, smudgy illustrations reflect the book’s nostalgic tone, and the striking red of the barn pops among the primarily earth-tone colors of the story. The humble building is the star of the show, after all—a symbol of kinship and love.

Julie Danielson conducts interviews and features of authors and illustrators at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, a children’s literature blog primarily focused on illustration and picture books.

When you think of nature, what do you imagine? Anthills, molehills, bears in dens and lions in the sun? In A Stone Sat Still, author-illustrator Brendan Wenzel tells a universal story of life through an ostensibly nonliving object. Unmoving and constant, a stone may be still. But it is full of life, both for and because of the life surrounding it.

Through Wenzel’s unique art, each page contains a small ecosphere to explore. Wenzel gives readers a new awareness, envisioning life through the expressive eyes of myriad creatures. A variety of media (paper collage, pastels) and colors transform the stone from crisp and bright to slippery and mossy or shadowy and secretive. Soft and blunt edges come together to create dimension, texture and movement. Slightly fantastical, Wenzel’s art flows from season to season; time passes, and the land changes, both dynamic and perpetual.

Lyrical and precise, A Stone Sat Still reads like a poem. In addition to rhyme, Wenzel weaves together metaphors, alliteration and personification to tap into the reader’s senses and imagination: How does the stone feel, smell or sound to the creatures that temporarily inhabit its world?

The littlest readers will find comfort in A Stone Sat Still’s repetition. Curious minds will be fascinated by both the familiar and unusual creatures parading across the pages. Imaginative brains will find vast realms of inspiration. And all readers will leave the stone with a sense of wonder about the next chapter in its life.

Jessie Sima presents the entertaining story of Spencer’s New Pet as if it were an old black-and-white motion picture. The book opens with a film leader, the countdown from three to one with large numbers in rotating circles. The book’s art deco typeface—for the titles of the story’s three main parts, presented like the intertitles of a silent film (the book is otherwise wordless)—resembles film fonts from the middle of the last century. Throughout the book, rendered on a palette of varying shades of gray, Sima even simulates iris shots, a technique frequently used in silent films. A spare, warm red is devoted to only two objects in the book.

A boy leads his new balloon animal, tied by a clown, about on a leash, and the danger of popping seems to lurk around every corner. But what appears to be the simple story of a boy enjoying his new balloon animal as if it’s a pet turns out to be otherwise.

Once the big reveal comes at the book’s close—who is really holding the leash, exactly?—readers will want to immediately reread to look for clues. (In one spread, for instance, the boy reads Pygmalion, the classic Greek myth, to his new pet.) The twist even takes the book’s tone in a creepy direction (delightfully so).

Readers will understand that things are not always what they seem—and will thrill at the drama that unfolds in this surprising and suspenseful homage to silent films.

Julie Danielson conducts interviews and features of authors and illustrators at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, a children's literature blog primarily focused on illustration and picture books.

When a gentle breeze tickles the ear of a very small sleeping mouse, he awakes with a squeak, beginning a chain reaction that ripples across mountains and valleys, touches creeks and rivers, rousing every creature in its wake. With a light touch, sisters Laura McGee Kvasnosky and Kate Harvey McGee do a stellar job of showing the interconnection of all things wet and scaly, wild and wooly.

Each page delights with sound and motion: The chipmunks chitter and skitter, an eagle “whooshes” and beats her wings, and a bighorn lamb nearly misses its mark while leaping to a nearby peak, sending dirt and gravel off the cliff to the ground below. Vibrant illustrations by McGee capture the beauty and expansiveness of the Pacific Northwest, with all its creatures—ranging from the smallest mouse to bighorn sheep and the largest of them all, a bellowing bison. All the ruckus finally comes back to the mouse, still curled up in a ball and wondering what the racket is all about.

The pairing of lively language and pastel panoramas makes Squeak! both rich and evocative. Little ones will love hearing about this mouse’s wake-up call to the world.