Saturday, December 7, 2013

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.