Sunday, November 25, 2012

The Bear By N. Scott Momaday

what ruse of vision,
escaping the wall of leaves,
rending incision
into countless surfaces.
.
Would cull and color
his somnolence, whose old age
has outworn valor
all but the fact of courage?
.
Seen, he doesn't come,
Move, but seems forever there,
dimensionless, dumb,
in the windless noon's hot glare.
.
More scarred than others,
These years since the trap mained him,
Pain slants his withers,
drawing up the crooked limb.
.
Then he is gone, whole,
without urgency, from sight,
as buzzards control,
imperceptibly, their flight.

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