Smokey the Bear: A Forest of Flames.

The smell of smoke blew toward him on the gentle breeze.  It was morning, the sun had yet to come up over the tree-line but its first light was penetrating through the darkness. Slowly, he opened his eyes and lifted his head then gazed up at the light blue sky where creamy clouds with a hint of faint orange were brushed in thinly, stretched out across the sky, as if a master artist had created this wonderful scene.

The air was cool as it came though on the same gentle breeze carrying the scent of smoke as it made its way from the sky down through the timber with its reds and browns and grays and blacks in textures ranging from smooth to rough upon the bark leading up to the green needles of the pines above strung out upon their long branches blocking much of that artwork even further above.

Beneath him was a carpet of grass spread out thinly in little shoots of bright green popping up out of the soil mixed with dead needles and dry dirt from the dryness of the Summertime.  The trunks of the trees spaced apart and distributed randomly by Nature.  He looked around at his surroundings. Then he stretched out his paws, displacing needles, dirt, and grass. Pulling his legs and arms back he stood up and swung his brown furry head around in a slow arc again taking in his surroundings. He sniffed the air with his nose. It was real, another wildfire. Soon, a day maybe three at most, humans would come in and try to put it out. They'd fly over head spraying liquids to extinguish the flames. He'd have to get away from here quickly. Fire and people weren't the friendliest towards bears.

He looked ahead through the dimness, the sun's light illuminating the forest floor. He couldn't see much, bears have poor eyesight, so he relied mostly on his nose and hearing. What he gained from this was that the fire wasn't too far away. In fact, the silence was unnatural. All he could hear was the gentle rustle of barely moving pine needles coming together and now and then a light creak from a weakly swaying branch. He heard that and the distant sound of crackling flame eating away at the dry tinder, spreading away from its source of ignition in a ever expanding imperfect circle.

He stood there a moment longer, the smoke began to become visible now, a barely perceptible light grayish black fog above his head and some at about knee height on him. The smell of smoke was stronger now, also bringing the smell of burning pine needles and bark. The breeze picked up just slightly, this would help it move forward in his direction. He turned and started walking away. If it got much closer he'd then jog, and if need be run. But he'd survived several of these in his six years of existence.  They weren't a danger unless you stayed put.