Bearly country living

The Better Half and I were semi-watching Sunday morning tv when the dogs went crazy with barking and dashing back and forth. There in the back yard were two black bears, wandering around looking for something to eat. I was only quick enough to get a picture of one of them, the one checking out the composting tumbler, and I inadvertently "auto-focused" on the branch rather than the bear.

black bear behind black compost tumbler

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night's tv news had a piece about all the bear sightings in the Twin Cities metro area, and the local neighborhood social media has been full of reports of bear sightings. We bring the bird feeders into the house and night, and will move the trash  can into the garage for several weeks. All of that's standard summer operating procedures when most of our neighbors are other than human persons, but it doesn't always solve the problems. A couple of years ago a bear shredded several panels on the screened patio when s/he climbed up to see if maybe we had left a feeder hanging someplace.

Bears at Raspberry Time

By Hayden Carruth

Fear. Three bears

are not fear, mother

and cubs come berrying

in our neighborhood

like any other family.

I want to see them, or any

distraction. Flashlight

poking across the brook

into briary darkness,

but they have gone,

noisily. I go to bed.

Fear. Unwritten books

already titled. Some

idiot will shoot the bears

soon, it always happens,

they’ll be strung up by the paws

in someone’s frontyard

maple to be admired and

measured, and I'll be paid

for work yet to be done—

with a broken imagination.

At last I dream. Our

plum tree, little, black,

twisted, gaunt in the

orchard: how for a moment

last spring it flowered

serenely, translucently

before yielding its usual

summer crop of withered

leaves. I waken, late,

go to the window, look

down to the orchard.

Is middle age what makes

even dreams factual?

The plum is serene and

bright in new moonlight,

dressed in silver leaves,

and nearby, in the waste

of rough grass strewn

in moonlight like diamond dust,

what is it?—a dark shape

moves, and then another.

Are they ... I can’t

be sure. The dark house

nuzzles my knee mutely,

pleading for meaty dollars.

Fear. Wouldn’t it be great

to write nothing at all

except poems about bears?

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