from the shadows under heavy maples
whose branches spread out over the lilacs
bordering the backyard.
The babies left their mother to scramble up a pine
gnarled from past winters and dry summers.
They draped their legs over two branches,
their long fur cascading like Spanish moss,
and watched the larger bear paw her way to the back deck.
Behind thin glass, I peered over my reading glasses at the scene,
mesmerized by her proximity and her enormous paws,
their claws manicured into steel knives,
her fur knitted into thorny brier.
How unconcerned she was with the swing
set into slight motion
or the chimes twirling in the wind.
She rose clumsily on heavy back legs
and tilted the bird feeder on its side,
shoving stolen food past well-worn teeth
onto a pink tongue.
She glanced over, no thought for me.
With a growl, the mother beckoned her babies,
their fur a tapestry in shadow.
They bounded down the tree, leaves shaking like maracas
and
joined her at the tilted bird trough.
Together they gulped the remaining gravel down,
then side-stepped the slide to head for blackberries,
thornless and plump from last night’s rain.
© Susan Muse, 2013
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| Mother black bear, a cub barely visible Photo by Alan Vernon, Wikimedia Commons |
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