We called your name. Through the thicket of fireweed, cow parsnip, and the occasional monk’s hood. Through the spruce pines, hemlocks, birch trees, and marsh grasses. Through the interminable growth and decay. Through the spit of rain and the wayward mosquitoes. We called your name. Not so as to beckon you, but to alert you to our presence. To give you the choice to veer away or to show yourself. Us, praying for the former, inclined to give ourselves time to secure the gates behind us. In effect, we were the ones caged; huddled together, looking out upon the world with expectation, but without a great deal of control.
We were the ones reminded of our vulnerabilities.
You fished, you gorged, you fell into woozy food comas in the middle of river currents. You jockeyed for dominance, you huffed, you gathered your girth. You loomed large on your hind legs, you sauntered confidently on all fours. You swam gracefully in the water’s depths, you lazed in the sun. Your cubs, both natural and adopted, were full of playful antics, but you were quick to warn us that they were not to be toyed with.
We called your name, and you answered with indifference. Your short summer work overshadowing hominoid distractions. It was as it should be.
Standing on winter's horizon as part of an ancient ecology.
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