A bear prowled the woods
Thinking he was an otter.
The quarter moon sifted through the trees
The wind, cool, humid, fresh from the rains
Brushed his face.
Dark thoughts, perhaps later
From the night
Wanted him to believe he tasted
The blood of a fawn.
The quarter moon, the wind,
The trees shifting,
Wanted him to believe he was free.
Pretence, the pretensions of a bear
Wanted him to believe the taste
He would rather be an otter
Perhaps worrying about the taste of
However, he was a bear
Watching a fawn graze in the pale moonlight.
He was a bear.
He wasn’t hungry.
He was a bear moving
Through the night.