The Kid and the Cub were camping out. Sunrise was streaking the east. Features of the land were making shapes in the purple distance and in the near shadows. A long mist covered the shoulders of a mountain visible across the valley. The Cub stretched and yawned. The Kid sniffed for scents of rain or traces of honeysuckle. 

“Sometimes I feel really sorry for humans,” the Kid said. 

“Why?” the Cub answered. “They’ve got roads and airplanes and shelter from the rain.” 

The Kid nodded.  “Yes, but how many have a morning like this?” 

The Cub did not understand. “Mornings belong to everyone.” 

The Kid was patient. “I suppose so, but humans do strange things to their mornings. They worry about what’s ahead for the day and what went wrong yesterday. Their cell phones start ringin’ before their heads are clear. They burn their bacon and their biscuits don’t always get done in the middle. How many of them just go outside and breathe the fresh air and listen for the last of the lonesome night birds and watch for the first rays of sun to brighten the tops of the mountains?”

“Why would they want to do that?” the Cub asked.  “Because it’s here,” the Kid answered. 

The Cub yawned. “That doesn’t make sense. If you were human I suppose you’d go out and stare at the mountains like you’d never seen one before?” 

The Kid tried again to make his point. “I might,” he said. “I sure wouldn’t stare at a TV and listen to experts shoutin’ lies at each other.” 

The Cub snorted. “Well, if you’re too good for that kind of communication, you could listen to a talk-show parrot on the radio and get your political instructions for the day.” 

The kid was becoming impatient. “You’re not tryin’ to understand what I’m sayin’,” the Kid said.  “Humans have free speech, but they also have experts by the dozen who are barely smarter than a toadstool. Those experts try to shut others up by pointing fingers and yellin.’” 

The Cub laughed. “I suppose you’d spend your mornings readin’ pretty poems and tellin’ everyone that they’re lucky to be alive and well and drinkin’ good coffee.”

“I might do just that!” the Kid answered. “And I’d turn off the television and toss the cell phones into the rain barrel. Repeating silliness doesn’t add to anyone’s life. Radio vigilantes are so busy findin’ fault with everything but the color of grass that they’re no help in making the most of a morning.”  The Cub was still sleepy. “Well, one thing is certain,” the Cub said. “We wouldn’t make good humans, either one of us. We don’t even know what pills to take for which ailments. But all things considered, humans may not be doin’ as bad as you say. They may learn slowly, but they’re makin’ progress.”

The Kid snorted. “Civilization does take a lot out of them. It’s no wonder they never stop talking about justice and peace and love like such things are lost buried treasure. So many two-legged bellwethers are tellin’ them what not to believe that they can’t enjoy a fine morning like this for fear someone will say that’s unpatriotic.” 

The Kid paused and took a deep breath. “There!  Smell that fresh cut hay? I think I’ll mosey down and find my breakfast before the sun gets up and the valley gets loud and stinky again.” 

The Cub yawned and rolled over on the dry grass that had been his bed for the night. “I’m goin’ to nap a little more,” he said. “Let out a ‘baaaa’ if you run across something I might like for my breakfast. And give me two big ‘baaaas’ if you find something to kick that improves your mood.”

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