Autumn. A chill wind pushes dying leaves from the branch. These leaves twist and tumble seemingly without purpose, flailing through the air, before they join their thousands of brothers, dead on the ground. Autumn is a change, turning away from the warmth of the summer sun, warning of the deadly cold that is to come.  

    The Sentinel heaves a sigh. The leaves fall upon his snout, causing him to shake them off, angered about being disturbed. He straightens, idly scratching his head with his large paw. His dull brown fur sways with the wind, as if it too longs to fall upon the ground. He has been seated here a long time. When he began his vigil, he was much younger, less scarred. His fur shone brightly in the sun. He wasn't missing an eye. He wasn't weary. 

    This spot is important. This glade within a deep forest, where the sun shines through only when it reaches its zenith in the sky. This glade that The Sentinel will not leave. A movement in the trees catches his eye, drawing it towards the canopy above. A bluebird flies to her nest, offering food to her children, who sit chirping incessantly within the safe confines of their nest. The Sentinel's eyes become unfocused, his mind wandering to a time long past. 

    He strolled through the falling leaves, the warm body of his mate beside him. A pleasant weight was settled on his shoulders. He could hear the laughter of his cub from above him. When they reached the clearing in the forest, his cub jumped down, running amongst the trees, a playful smile on his face. They had come here many times, each visit more joyful than the last.  

    His mate came forward, wanting to join in on the fun of their child. Chuckling to himself, The Sentinel sat with his back against a nearby tree, watching his family. He was content just being an observer. Seeing those two chasing each other around the forest, he knew that he could never be happier than he was here, in this moment. 

    Winter is cold. The first snow falls upon the ground, burying the grasses in a grave of white. The trees stand naked, skeletal remnants of the glory they once held. Birds flee, others are unable to endure. Winter is death. 

    The Sentinel shivers. The once thick fur that used to protect him is now coming out in patches, peppering the otherwise white ground. The snow is heavy. His kind were not meant for this. He should be sleeping in a cave, hiding from the cold of winter, but he will not. He cannot leave this place. The young tree at his back is his only company in this dark land. Even it, he can feel, is teetering on the brink of death. 

    His breath comes out in great clouds of steam. He feels that each exhalation takes part of his soul with it, the heat dispersing amongst the shadows of the night. The bird's nest on the branch high above is long since abandoned. A sound off to his right draws The Sentinel's gaze. A thin branch, unable to handle the burden of the snow, snaps, flailing through the air before landing with a dull thud upon the earth. He sighs, closing his eye, hoping to find some small measure of comfort in his thoughts. 

    The sun shone weakly through the clearing, as if it too could sense the somber mood. The Sentinel marched stoically through the snow, his mate by his side. Together they came to a stop in the center of the snowy glade. Gently, The Sentinel lowered his head, allowing his cub to weakly climb off his back. His cub took one step before stumbling in the snow, his mate rushing to aid him. 

    The Sentinel and his mate nuzzled their cub lying upon the cold ground. He thanked them for bringing him here to his favorite place, one last time. With one last look at The Sentinel and his mate, their cub breathed his last breath, the light fading from his eyes.  

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    His mate was never the same. They would come to the clearing often, to mourn the cub they had lost. It was her idea to plant the acorn over his grave. He hadn't the heart to disagree. One snowy night, looking out into the dark together, his mate had wandered off without a word. He didn't try to stop her or even go to search for her. They both knew her decision and the consequences that it bore. She was never seen again.  

    The Sentinel shivered again in the cold. The memories he felt cut him like a knife, but the hatred that they stirred up that he held for himself kept him warm. He refused to let this winter be his last. The snow stopped falling, then began to melt. Timid green peaked out from what snow was left. The Sentinel remained. 

    Spring is warmth. It is the rejuvenation of life after a world of cold and darkness. Flowers bloom, the birds return. The world awakens from its slumber. Spring is life.  

    Birdsong roused The Sentinel from his slumber, jolting upright into a sitting position before regaining his bearings. He had been having a nice dream, of better times. The winter was ended, and the forest was once more alive. It seemed that everything was a flurry of movement, buzzing and flapping and playing and singing, save for the glade. The Sentinel alone stood watch, silent.  

    The young tree at his back had survived the long cold as well. It was getting stronger by the day, and The Sentinel was proud of it as one would be proud of a child. The morning sun had not yet broken through the trees, and The Sentinel was tempted to return to sleep. A pained cry brought him to full wakefulness. 

    Someone was crying for help. The Sentinel leapt to his feet and rushed towards the sound. As he broke through the line of trees, The Sentinel saw another, lying in the grass, blood pooling at her side. Concerned, he knelt next to her, assessing the damage. He grew more panicked each moment that he could not find her wound. 

    A soft mewl broke his concentration. The Sentinel looked, and next to him sat a small, newborn cub. Memories of a spring long ago washed over him, threatening to suffocate him. After a brief internal struggle, The Sentinel broke through the waves of regret threatening to drag him down. He would not be able to bear it if this young mother had to experience the pain that he had carried with him for so long. She was in dire need of help. The mother was thin, as was her cub. She had obviously not eaten in days, possibly more. Her pleading eyes met his, and The Sentinel struggled to think of a way to help. 

    The Sentinel thought about rushing off to find food to bring to the mother and her cub but stopped in his tracks when he realized that she probably would not survive for much longer if he left. She needed food as soon as possible. The Sentinel stood in place, unable to find a solution to this problem. He looked back to the trees, and once more beheld the birds in their nest. The mother feeding the chicks from her own mouth, giving them life. The Sentinel's one eye widened as the sun finally crested the trees. The glade exploded with light, and The Sentinel understood. 

    Summer is a revelation. Where winter is cold and dead, Summer is warmth and life. Families spend time together, play and love one another. Motivation is restored, giving one the strength to carry on and to do what is right. Summer is Purpose. 

    The Sentinel assured the mother that all would be alright. He reached over, and patted the newborn cub gently on the head, reminiscing on what could have been. He had failed his family and lived a lonely life of self-loathing. Now, at the end, he felt a small measure of happiness that he might do one last good act. He knelt once again in front of the starving mother and spoke to her.  

    Her protests did not last as the hunger gnawing at her stomach drove all other thought from her mind. She nodded her consent, and the Sentinel moved towards her. The Sentinel looked to her cub, for a brief moment seeing his own smiling down at him, and as the young mother bit down on his neck, The Sentinel knew that his watch was finally complete. 

    The Sentinel slept.