HARRY HUMES
BLACK BEAR
When I turn toward shuffle
and snap, it is a black bear
sashays out of the spruce swamp,
roundness of shoulders,
paws swinging as though on hinges.
Clown head, cello of throat, yellow claws,
it lies near my feet,
a landscape of blackness,
rolling over, weightless,
eyes half open.
I offer it smoked salmon,
saying what I think a bear
wants to hear, running my finger
over the top of one scarred ear,
the hollow between its eyes.
Afternoon slips over trillium
and coltsfoot, my scalp itches
beneath my hat. Near dusk,
heavy-bellied and up on two legs,
guard hair flat to its neck,
it hangs over me,
a weather of edges,
swaying in the emptiness
of switchback and cave,
log rot, star drift.
