In a cold, windswept forest near the edge of civilization, two wild bears—old, grizzled, and eccentric—sat facing each other on a fallen log. The older of the two, Bramble, scratched his scruffy head and blinked slowly at his younger companion, Moss, whose mind always seemed to be off somewhere chasing clouds.
“Let’s trade,” Moss said abruptly, eyes wide with inspiration, as though he had just discovered fire or flight.
Bramble grunted. “Trade what?”
“Thoughts. Ideas. Notions. Intangibles. Things not even worth considering,” Moss replied, as if this clarified everything.
Bramble raised an eyebrow. “You mean, things like… your theory that the moon is a floating egg waiting to hatch?”
“Exactly!” Moss beamed. “I’ll trade that for your idea about squirrels being spies for the owls.”
Bramble sighed, rubbing his temples with one paw. “Moss, that’s not how trading works. Those aren’t worth anything.”
“That’s precisely why we should trade them. Like a clearance sale of the mind. Out with the nonsense. Make room for fresher nonsense.”
Curiosity getting the better of him, Bramble leaned forward. “Alright. I’ll bite. Let’s hear your best offer.”
Moss puffed up his chest. “I propose the moon egg theory in exchange for your idea that rain is tree sweat.”
Bramble considered this. “Tempting. But the tree sweat theory has sentimental value. I came up with it during the drought of ‘19. Saved a lot of morale that summer.”
“Fine, fine,” Moss said, thinking deeply. “How about my belief that pinecones are failed birds?”
“Failed birds?”
“They try to fly, fall from the tree, and just… stay there.”
Bramble chuckled. “You really believe that?”
“Only on days when the fog is thick.”
“Alright,” Bramble said, nodding solemnly. “In exchange, I offer my theory that the river is just a snake that forgot how to curl.”
The trade was made with an imaginary handshake. Both bears sat back, momentarily satisfied.
Then Moss perked up again. “I have another offer. I’ll trade you the dream I had where I was a mushroom growing under a fox’s hat.”
Bramble snorted. “What do you want in return?”
“The memory you have of that one fish you swear sang a lullaby to you before it escaped.”
Bramble’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not a memory. That’s trauma.”
“Even better,” Moss said. “More value.”
They paused. The wind rustled the branches. Somewhere far off, a woodpecker laughed mockingly.
Bramble sighed. “You know none of this matters, right?”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Moss said cheerfully. “But isn’t it wonderful?”
“Wonderful?” Bramble repeated, almost offended.
“Yes! To sit here, swapping thoughts like pebbles in a stream. Ideas too light to sink. Nothing real, nothing heavy. Just possibilities.”
Bramble didn’t respond for a long while. Then he gave a slow nod. “Alright. One last trade. I’ll give you the notion that clouds are sky-goats, grazing on the blue.”
Moss clapped his paws in delight. “In exchange, I’ll give you the idea that we’re not bears at all—just forest-dreams pretending to have shape.”
Bramble smiled, despite himself.
And there they sat—two wild bears, fur tangled with burrs and bits of forest, trading notions not even worth considering. No gold, no tools, no meat or territory. Just fancies, floating between them like dandelion seeds in spring.
In a world driven by survival, logic, and instinct, perhaps there was something d
eeply valuable—if not sensible—in their senseless little exchange.
