Boone the bear stepped up to the old wooden bridge. He tapped a paw on a loose board. It wobbled with a sickening creak.
Boone's ears flattened against his head. He took a step back, one heavy paw already raised to turn around.
Boone plucked a handful of dry pine needles and blew. A thin grey smoke curled up and drifted toward the bridge. The smoke threaded through the cracks and came out the other side — perfectly clean.
Boone's nose twitched. His tail gave a single hopeful thump against the dirt.
Boone set one heavy paw on the bridge and leaned forward, listening. The bridge groaned once, then settled with a solid thud.
Boone pressed his ear flat against the wood. He heard only the stream bubbling below — no cracks, no worries. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Boone stepped fully onto the bridge, testing each plank with careful stomps. The bridge held firm.
Suddenly Boone couldn't help himself — he hopped, he bounced, he did a full spin in the middle. A wildflower nearby wiggled from the vibrations.
A single yellow petal dropped from the wildflower and landed right on his head.
Boone trotted across the bridge with a spring in his step, tail high and ears perked. He stopped to sniff the wildflowers on the other side. The stream bubbled happily behind him.
