Up on Mill Mountain this morning, where the fog lifts slow and the trees wear their last fire-bright leaves like old medals. The oaks and maples were humming orange, the sky the color of cooled steel.

Out from between the trunks came a bear – big, black, and steady. Not rushing anywhere, just existing in the kind of way that makes you feel small but safe. He was wearing a white shirt, crisp against his dark fur, with a bright red circle-and-slash over a crown: no kings.

A quiet manifesto in the woods.

He didn’t roar it. Just stood there, breathing clouds into the cold morning air, as if to say: we don’t need crowns here – just balance, warmth, and berries enough for all.

The mountain seemed to nod. The leaves swirled. A jay shouted something rude from above, and the bear went on his way, stepping over moss and memory.

Down the slope, the Roanoke Star blinked faintly through the mist, watching too.

No kings, no hurry. The forest already knows how to rule itself.

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