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Cindersong hated leafbare. It was cold and dreary and everything is always harder. It's harder to get fresh kill, harder to keep warm and cleaner. But hardest of all was getting water. Claws scraped at the hard surface. The ice wasn't incredibly thick, but it was an effort to get through to drink. She knew the ice wouldn't support her weight so she couldn't walk out to where the water was flowing. The she-cat sighed as she worked at the ice.

Why couldn't it be warm and sunny year round? Why did it have to get so hard? Yes the elders spoke of how even like we sleep, the land needs it's rest. She loved stories enough to know this one. But it still sucked. It made it harder on everyone. And more cats would get sick and those that were sick or old were more likely to go to Starclan. Cindersong hated it. She hated death.

The ice cracked and shifted, revealing the cold water beneath. Cindersong smiled and knelt down to relish in the fruit of her labors. She lapped at the frigid water, feeling it roll down her throat and sink like a rock in her stomach. Well, at least she'd made a hole. She'd be able to come back to this spot frequently and keep it open for herself and others. She'd show her clan this later, for now her paws hurt from the work and she was exhausted. The female laid in the frozen grasses on the bank, watching patches of ice flow down the stream between it's frozen edges.