The dinner guest arrived late.
No invitation.
No reservations.
Alone.
Just newly awake,
belly growling with
a devastating hunger.
Drawn here
for a free meal,
easy,
high in calories.
A good deal.
He almost got away with it
but for a soft noise.
3 a.m. is the witching hour.
I look out.
Is he even real?
or a supernatural specter?
To Native Americans
he is a spiritual guide.
To Robert Frost
a being that roams wide:
“The world has room to make a bear feel free;
The universe seems cramped to you and me.”
Ursa Major dominates the spring skies.
The Big Dipper, a guide.
Under the stars, my bruin friend,
I whisper “safely abide.”
I will listen to the DEC officers
and take the bird feeders
down until fall.
When you next again
“rock a boulder on the wall”.
Black bear in Raquette Lake. Photo by Jeff Nadler, archive photo.
Poetry: Can We But Live
And arrow-peaks of infant conifers emerging from cold earth,
Rebirth and change, in their pristine delicacy, their exquisite bond,
Clean dried scales from tired eyes too long clouded,
While staunching tears too freshly spilled,
All, in an undisclosed and ever-changing plan.