Woreland Field, I learned, sat exactly above the Skenandoa family’s Den. After making love with Timber and showering, we exited the den, and he led me out of his underground world. Once again in the confines of Skenandoa Deep, he escorted me to the end of the autumn woods, which opened to a privately owned field called Woreland. The field looked as if a giant picnic were taking place with more than a hundred or more people, all relatives, and none of which were in their bear forms, keeping discreet from the public views from people in helicopters, airplanes, and non-shifting trespassers on their private property.
Think of a family reunion in a football-sized playing field with a large buffet of fruits, boiled cornbread, cooked beans, nuts, fishes, and a variety of baked goods; tasty treat
