The Year of the BearI ignore the first prominent crackle in the underbrush to my left. It's most likely a squirrel, and I've seen plenty of those. One more does not interest me.The Year of the Bear by BookLyrm
It's early August in northern New Jersey and it's hot enough to melt butter even in the leafy shade beneath the oaks at the edge of the pond. The heat makes me so lazy that I don't even want roll my head sideways on the battered plastic pool chair for a glance to the left. Anyway, Dracula is getting exciting. I ruffle the pages to go in my face, wishing that a real breeze would blow across the water.
An answering ruffle of leaves does not surprise me. If it's not a squirrel then it's probably my dog out patrolling her territory for new, alien smells. A crackle of brittle twigs from the same direction must be more squirrels, and a light slosh by the edge of the pond is just another trout belly-flopping as it gulps a bug off the surface. Finally, a quick succession of loud, crisp snaps--Chinese firecrackers in miniature--earns my at