A few days ago I walked over Sunset Mountain, through one of those Van Gogh autumn paintings with gnarled limbs and whorls of leaves. The wind roared through the trees, cast shadows and shafts of light across the gravel road, lighting a tree trunk. Just ahead three bear cubs, furry silhouettes tumbled out of the brush, one by one with their watchful mother. I’m glad to see The Tortured Man, the charred sculpture with head riddled with nails, has stepped out of the deep shade and into the sunlight. Yesterday, a noise out on the back deck, and I found the same family. After I urged them to leave, I watched them lumber across the backyard and gingerly climb the fence. For one moment, three little bear bottoms balanced on the fence, and then, like the dream they are, were gone.