Of the three, only the crow’s tongue is black. At the stream, filled bank to bank with desperate salmon, the bear charges in and tosses skin-ribboned bodies. Moony wants to go. Moony has a spot of white on his black chest. The bear has a hump of fat between his shoulders. He looks slow until he isn’t. Moony has a low growl in the bottom of his throat. The grass is gold this fall and holding.  The aspens are gold and shaking in the sun.  It might be the bear’s exhalation.  The crow sits on a dead pine limb waiting for a smear of salmon-colored salmon eggs on the rocks.  He tilts his head up to caw to any other crows in the area and I see four plumes of breath vapor.  I don’t hear reply, but Moony cocks an ear. I am too far from the bear. I saw a photo once of Claude Monet with a pigeon on his head. He had a longing like mine.