6:09 a.m. 60 degrees, wind W 1 mph. Sky: cloud bound and bruised; bellyaching, expectant; a composite of shapes, some weighty. Permanent streams: upper eases toward the finish line; last night's storm birthed a puddle in the bed of the lower, slowly leaching away like a dream. Woods: brooding and sober; a Hansel and Gretel grimness. Wetlands: colors dense; air still; the wall of evergreens across the marsh appears solid, an impenetrable fortress of spruce, fir, hemlock, and pine. Pond: surface rippleless and fogless; directly overhead, a cloud the size of Montana speaks in tongues. I listen. Then, hurriedly leave.
Yesterday, a bear visited my neighbor, who lives high on the eastern rim of the Hollow, not far from the sadness of the goshawks. Having had bears in the barn and in the garage, disassembling bird feeders, tipping buckets of sweet feed and cans of black-oil sunflower seeds, I overcame inertia; moved the birder feeders indoors for the night. I rely on my dogs to tell me when a bear's around. They burn to be loosed, their bark primordial and chilling; alertness overtakes their faces (not kibble alertness; something more barbarous). Canine determination and bruin expediency were both born in the halls of the Ice Age when both bears and wolves came in larger sizes.
Dogs will drive a bear across the valley, their voices trailing behind them. They know no boundaries. Often, the bear will tree, then the dogs circle and bay, an urgency to their bark echoing that ancient unscripted script. When dogs get bored (or hungry), they come home. I listened to a retreating bear, once, by tracing the domino effect of my neighbor's dogs, which transferred their bark one to the other, all the way down the valley.
This morning, I return the feeders to their pole. Within moments, goldfinches and doves, which waited stoically in the maples, appear, filling the yard with unsheathed enthusiasm. The forlorn cooing of the dove, which sounds like an owl with a broken heart, belies true feelings, alive and well, happy to be fed. Here and there, a honking jay. Clusters of chickadees. House wren, a volley of sound. Out of the darkling forest, pewee whistles summer away. One lingering red-eyed vireo sings to himself. Daylight dwindles. How much longer before the river of broadwings peel from the base of a thermal and glide to Bolivia? Or the peregrine, also booked to Bolivia, rips through a thermal at 100 mph? A hundred routes to Bolivia. A parody of border crossings. The thrill of autumn . . . anticipation makes Dog Days bearable.
A red eft, moving like an alligator or a camel, an unstable gait, legs on one side, then the other, left, right, left, below fern and fleabane. Heads to the marsh to become a newt, a new reality. The clock turns.
Today's poem was about an encounter with a bear: Bear Medicine by Jamie Reaser
I saw you there in the
humid oak-poplar wood
of late summer morning.
Lanky young bruin
with perfect posture
and amble,
deftly trampling the
delicate ostrich ferns
with each
magnificent
pawfall
as you made your
way, intentfully
and agape,
up the rocky mountain slope.
I waited,
patiently,
like someone who had
just found an unyielding
faith in long-rumored miracles.
Your journey and my journey
will intersect this day.
“Bear medicine,”
some would say.
And we did have our moment.
Yes.
Standing still.
Fully aware of the other’s earthly presence.
Looking deeply into each other’s sight-full eyes.
Breathing each other’s privileged breath
in a way that even a poet shouldn’t
try to explain.
And, there, on sacred ground,
I couldn’t contemplate 'bear medicine.'
Couldn’t feel it tingling the hairs on my arms.
Couldn’t sense it transforming the course of my days.
Couldn’t bring myself to walk,
for even a second,
between the thin-veiled worlds.
No, no as we moved on from that moment,
You climbing Northwest,
Me climbing Southwest,
All I could think about was this:
What is human medicine to a bear?
What is human medicine to a bear?
Is it powerful?
Is it kind?
Does it leave you feeling grateful and graced?
Or, is it...?
Or, does it…?
This is what you left me with.
This question:
What is human medicine to a bear?
This question.
This question that has stilled me
in the dark silence of my Self,
seeking the wisdom of thoughts
I’ve never before known.
Yes.
Yes...
Bear medicine.