It was November.

Tiny, crisp canoes sailed from branches to the ground.

Tracing pure wets, twirling round.

Red, orange, yellow leaves falling down,

hitting the forest floor without a sound.

A crinkly brown leaf touched upon bear's nose.

He flicked it away.

He was busy today.

For weeks he'd been in a tizzy, foraging, munching, filling his tummy, stuffing himself with

everything yummy.

The best time to forge was at dusk, twilight, that time of day that's on the cusp of night.

Yes, twilight was best, but these days the ones right before his big sleep bear couldn't

afford to have a schedule to keep.

Now he was out at all hours, even at noon.

Eating and eating, for his big sleep would come soon.

No more picnics with rabbit, no more parties with fox, no more jumping with deer down in

the rocks.

It had been weeks since bear had romped through the wood with his friends, his deer friends,

because soon the season would end, and bear wasn't sure they understood.

Rabbit, fox, gray squirrel, owl, deer, no, they weren't quite clear on why bear couldn't

attend their shindigs, on why he spent every moment eating berries and twigs.

They certainly gathered, they beefed up their food stocks, but they weren't quite as

...