<p>Brown leaves underfoot — or perhaps underpaw — or perhaps purple, orange, red, yellow all butted up against the coarse bark at the bases of trees. Trunks stood sturdy with browns or tans or, with their persistent loveliness, the dusty whites of aspen and birch. Leaves clung still to the branches, for it was early yet in autumn, and there fluttered a riot of greens dark and pale, the yellow-gold of aspen flickering among them. And the sky! There was, of course, the pale blue of lakes on a map, and clouds, white tinged with the white-gold of the sun, or perhaps more inventive colors, out to the east, salmon and yellow and orange; and there, to the west, the subtlest tinge of green, a nod to the whimsy of such a well manicured forest.</p>
<p>A riot of scents.</p>
<p>There, the dusty-sweet scent of the oldest fallen leaves breaking down into humus. There, the crispness that sat just shy of fruity that came with the morning. There, the honey-lemon sweetness of arborvitae and hyssop. It was all the scent of fall. Enticing and hungry-making.</p>
<p>The joyous cacophony of birdsong — twittering, warbling, singing songs so complicated they dazzled the ear. Some were warnings, perhaps, and others calls out to mates or family. Some may well have been songs sung for the simple joy of it all. A joyous cacophony that would of a sudden come to a stop. Were they all listening, ears to the sky or down to the ground? Was there some hidden voice calling out to them? Or was it a sudden watchfulness, a preparation for flight? And down rather than up, the crush and rustle of leaves, the rattle of them against the rocky trails.</p>
<p>And, of course, a riot of movement.</p>
<p>April and Ksenija hurried down along the path from the entry point of the sim out to one of the various scattered meadow, leaves crackling underfoot — underfoot for April, who was, as ever, clad in her clompy boots; and underpaw for Ksenija, who, as ever, eschewed such, for there was little need to worry about walking bare-pawed for a bear.</p>
<p>“I still don’t understand why you like this place so much,” the bear grumbled good-naturedly. “I mean, it’s pretty as hell, don’t get me wrong, but this whole time-limit thing always struck me as a needless complication, you know?”</p>
<p>April laughed, shaking her head. “Come, my dear. It is not <em>that</em> bad, yes? It really is pretty, but also the time limit is part of the fun. We have six hundredths–”</p>
<p>“Come on, April. Ninety minutes. You can say ninety minutes.”</p>
<p>“Ninety minutes. There. I said it. Anyhow, as I was saying, we have six hundredths to get all set up and have a picnic, so there is a little bit of joy in the act of hunting down a free spot, tossing out the blanket, eating our food, enjoying the day, and we never know quite when we will get swept.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Needless complication,” Ksenija said, grinning lopsidedly. “You have a really weird idea of fun.”</p>
<p>“Sue me,” she drawled. “I am 320 years old. I am allowed to be weird. In fact, I think I might even be legally obligated to be weird. If I am not, I risk censure.”</p>
<p>“By whose laws?”</p>
<p>“Uh…I do not know. Nature’s, probably.” She squinted up to the trees as, yet again, the birdsong fell silent and a breeze ruffled through her curls. “Someone else getting swept, I bet.”</p>
<p>Ksenija laughed. “Of course. I guess that means we’re heading in the right direction, then. Newly available picnic spot.”</p>
<p>The altered course to follow where the breeze had blown, letting the swirling leaves carry them along.</p>
<p>There, between the trees, they saw the fallen leaves pick up into a swirl, a little vortex of brown and yellow and purple swirling around an indistinct form that, without a sound, suddenly vanished, right along with their own picnic blanket and cooler.</p>
