Bears that wear blue jeans. Acid-washed, stonewashed, and unwashed. The one that considers herself a gardener stomps around in bib overalls with a lacy blouse underneath. The one that sits apart from others at the picnic, gnawing a pig knuckle, is quite blue. He dreamed of robin's eggs the night before and can't shake it from his memory. They all hear the bluetick hound baying in the distance, perhaps across the lake, and begin to swing their massive heads from side to side. The grandmother bear hums. It is an old tune from Appalachia about a lost love or a lost girl. She can't remember the words.