Very rough first draft of a new poem.
Walking Alone In Bear Country
A vast, untouched blueberry patch
brings him off the trail.
He picks several handfuls,
chomps them down.
He’s all blue stained smiles.
He licks juice from between
his fingers. Licks where it’s run
in rivulets down his forearms.
Pines loom, shaman of the deep woods.
They observe his solo journey,
ceremonial in their still silence.
Every now and then, sunlight
creates pinwheels of colour
in his peripheral and he is happy.
His unmarked way becomes hazy
with blossom and bugs.
He smacks a mosquito, rubs
its remains from the inner fold
of his elbow.
Solid humming reminds
him there are many millions more.
He pulls out bug spray.
Empties the can over his skin.
He’s not thinking beyond this moment.
In his rucksack, a baguette
and cheese wrapped in wax sweats.
He moves in deeper.
The sow listens, catches sound
of something coming from downriver.
She stands her ground, this strong
mother, above her fifth litter.
They are but months
old and curious.
The kill is from behind.
She is swift and she is silent.
Blood whispers from his neck
wound, and the cubs dance
in the mysterious red rain.
Mother bear eats until her belly
is hard and big and bold.
The cubs eat cautiously at first,
then with gusto, thrusting little heads
into the cavity of his torso and pulling
back out again, gore in their ears
gore on their eyelashes.
As the sun tongues the land
for the last time, Mother bear drags
leaves and debris from trees
over what’s left of the carcass.
And the family move away, eyes glossy
From the moment she heard his footfall,
Mother was a dead bear walking, and her cubs
destined to lose everything she had taught them.