This is the time when the truck tips on the offramp and busts open on its side.
The bear, just out of hibernation, walks across the empty six-lane highway and grabs a box of Fruit Loops spilled from the busted seam of the truck’s back door.
She tucks it under her arm and walks to the nearest house–a ranch style, unremarkable–and knocks on the door with one of her great, great, great, great, great, great, great paws; the paw without the box in the armpit. Her right paw. She’s not a south paw.
Nobody answers.
She rings the doorbell, then busts down the door, hollering for Bing Crosby. She walks in on her great, great, great, great, great, great, great hind legs. She gets a glass of water. From the Britta.
Few will get the hilarity of this.
Meanwhile, in the woods, the squirrels take off their masks and sing fabulous songs; the songs we always knew they could sing if they’d
Just.
Stop.
Fucking.
Twitching.
Morning comes and we throw off our blankets and duvets and comforters to find our bodies turned to dust.
Damn it.
The squirrels would have been so much fun to watch.