Embrace.

My FRIEND the BEAR

Down in the bone myth of the cellar

of this farmhouse, behind the empty fruit jars

the whole wall swings open to the room

where I keep the bear.  There's a tunnel

to the outside of the far wall that emerges

in the lilac grove in the backyard

but she rarely uses it, knowing there's no room

around her for a freewheeling bear.

She's not a dainty eater so once a day

I shovel shit while she lopes in playful circles.

Privately she likes religion—from the bedroom

I hear her incantatory moans and howls

below me—and April 23rd, when I open

the car trunk and whistle at midnight

and she shoots up the tunnel, almost airborne

when she meets the night.  We head north

and her growls are less friendly as she scents

the forest-above-the-road smell.  I release

her where I found her as an orphan three

years ago, bawling against the dead carcass

of her mother.  I let her go at the head

of the gully leading down to the swamp,

jumping free of her snarls and roars.

But each October 9th, one day before bear season

she reappears at the cabin frightening

the bird dogs.  We embrace ear to ear,

her huge head on my shoulder,

her breathing like a god's.

Jim Harrison