Bearclaw Valley With the thrill of a kill, vengefully, the engine will

Lucas reflected, as he basked in a cloud of pollen, on how much he loved flowers.

They came to the world without warning, bright little buds among the grass and explosive white clusters on the trees. It seemed to happen overnight to the pup, whose impression of time was warped—one day in the eyes of an imaginative child was five to a tired adult with too little time. One day there was only green in the valley, and the next, enticing white and light pink bulbs could be found around every corner. Lucas had done everything imaginable to the young flowers as they sprouted and grew: licked them, batted them around, chewed on them, pressed his ear delicately against them, listening for a song or a secret.

Then came the bees and the pollen. Presently the air was choked with wispy white fluffs that lodged in his nose and made him sneeze (but who doesn't love sneezing, amiright). Where they landed, minute sprinkles of yellow remained. The bees hummed busily around trees and occasionally around his ears, but they never bothered him even when he chased after them, giggling. Yep, Lucas loved spring and he loved the flowers. On his back in a cluster of them under the clear mid-morning sky, he thumped his tail joyfully on the ground and reached out a browning paw to gently touch a closed bud.