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
Of blood.
He would rather be an otter
Perhaps worrying about the taste of
Trout.
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.
Dorothy Pitt
The first time in a while I’ve clicked on “I’m Feeling Lucky” and actually got an accurate web site. Thank you!
Tom Smith
Thank you, luck can be very cool!