Bear in the moon-washed woods is claws-deep in warm guts. Making blood pies of forest soil. Feasting though his ears twitch: Something’s there.
Man in the wild woods chooses solitude. Thoughts and a Thermos for company. Escaping the prod and pry of domesticity. A stick breaks: Something’s there.
Bear in the moon-washed woods flares nostrils. Intruder on the wind.
Man in the wild wood cocks his rifle.
Bear in the moon-washed woods has gone, fleet pad through undergrowth to nestle in soil. Safe.
Man in the wild woods shrugs finding no quarry. Shoots anyway and fills the air with panic.
