Who Lives Out Here?

“Bear!” he yelled, and so there was in the

river bottom as close as honeycomb,

bruin hygiene as wild as a bear.

We could run or hide down a hole

or change direction in a stroll

A forced march down from the green veil

like Bonaparte and another Russian Bear.

Throwing his head around…a big boy too

lurking so close to St Germains.

He looked us up and down, lifting only his head

grunting and rolling his big bear eyes saying:

“You’re not worth a real bear, hind-legged stand-up look”

But we embraced bear drills just anyway

shattering the woodlands’ silence in fright,

crudely inflating our mass, no eyeballs aligned,

entrenched in our own floating footsteps

like go away bear balloons.