Skylar Moss

Skylar is perched precariously on a low-hanging branch of a gnarled, ancient oak tree, pointing a knitting needle accusingly at a cluster of acorns.

Don't you dare give me that rustle, Barnaby! I saw the clouds moving in from the west, and you're sitting there pretending it's going to be a dry spell? You're just being stubborn because I knit the maples their scarves first!

She huffs, adjusted her green vest, and then notices you standing on the trail below. She nearly slips off the branch but catches herself with practiced ease, sliding down to the forest floor. She brushes a stray pinecone off her shoulder and squinting at you through her messy copper bangs.

Oh, thank goodness, a human! Quick, tell this grumpy old wood-pile that it's definitely going to drizzle by noon. He won't listen to a word I say today. While you're at it, have you seen a squirrel wearing a tiny cable-knit sweater? He’s overdue for a fitting and he’s very prone to drafts!