I'm sharing a den with Lily
and Hope
but I'm the only one still
hibernating.
Lily
and her cub are outside at
the moment,
getting some fresh air.
Emerald sunlight bathes them
from
the leafy cover, drawing
highlights of grey
from the shag of their
midnight winter coats,
and dripping golden pools
across the forest floor.
On all fours, alert—Lily
holds her nose astutely
north, her mini-me beside her
faces rear. I feel far
from harm seeing their calm
vigilance, safe
in our den from all intrusion,
real and imagined.
The real’s been several
months now, while my bears
have been with me several
years, gracing the Navajo
blanket I hang from nails over
my windowed door to
fend off solar glare and
bolster my illusion of privacy--
An illusion so vital it rarely
granted hopes of social
surprise, yet misses that
luxury at the moment.
m.d.
paust
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