The bear has turned the trash can on its head,
plastic bags torn open, strewn across the yard,
looking like gutted ravens; orange peels,
tea bags and coffee grounds ignored.
Should I place a menu, post it for the bear’s
next visit, put out napkins and paper plates,
and what about a table cloth so the bear
is then accommodated by the niceties of polite
dining? I imagine him telling his friends that our
house is the best hit, always plenty to maul over,
and he invites them to dine after his nightly rounds.
I’ve tried to catch him in his act of busting open
the trash’s lid and have waited late into the dark,
hoping to see this king of thrifty enterprise,
yet I’ve not caught a single sight of him.
There’s something thick about the boundless
night that makes me hesitate. It’s as though
the pliable world is less so in darkness—so I
fidget, horrified to break a path through air,
place one foot upon the porch—the burning eyes
of bear turning me coward at my front door.
© by Dianna MacKinnon Henning.
Used with the author’s permission.