Brown Bear mourns for winter to return, and I mourn with him. We sit, grumpy, side by side on a log, watching the snowdrops peek through the fading veil of the blizzard. Our solemn faces contrast against the forest’s budding of spring: pale, hairy, and drowsy, we are. 

“I want to sleep for longer,” I say, lolling my head around on my shoulders.  

Brown Bear paws at his eyes and yawns. “Me too,” he says, his voice tinged with weariness, “but we must endure. The hunter’s gun draws nearer with every spring. I would rather face them awake, ready to fight, than be caught unawares in slumber.” 

I roll my eyes. “Must you be so pessimistic?”  

Brown Bear stretches his arms above his ears. “Truth is often pessimistic.” 

I blow hot air past my lips. Brown Bear slips off the log onto four legs, shaking the dust and dirt off his coat.  

“I’m starving; let's forage,” he says. “You take the east trees for berries. I’ll take the creek for fish.” 

I sigh, knowing arguing with him would render me useless. “All right.” 

We saunter off our separate ways. I find raspberry bushes in the shade of some oaks. I take my time picking only the ripest berries. One for me, one for Brown Bear. 

When I move to the next bush, the breeze changes directions and blows warm and prudent. Cicadas slow their humming to a cease. Finches perch on their boughs and surrender their songs to silence. The forest sits heartless and humid in my lungs. 

There’s an explosion of metal somewhere near, yet far.  

Then another.  

Then nothing. 

I place a raspberry between my teeth and bite down hard, letting the sweetness dribble onto my tongue and down my chin, where the sun dries it to a lonely, red trail. Brown Bear’s voice doesn’t call for me. 

And winter is over.