for all this time to ramble, kids in tow, down the remnant logging roads and deer paths that make a park
of these toy woods, so close to town now town has devoured all the land between. Yet here he sits, or she, for all you know, fur so black
it’s almost blue, only thin glass between you, so suddenly proximate you are pressed to say what you are seeing, this vaudeville act, ursine
slapstick Chaplin who invites you to forget all danger, to forget you are still one animal coming upon another. A single noisy tread, one
telltale stair, and you are busted, as the beautiful comedian detects your gaze behind the fifteen panes that transform bear to cubist
caricature, your clown of darkness, who regains all fours and turns literal tail to amble, not run, back into the maze of forest and con-
spiratorial salal, but not before you throw sense and caution to the wind, wrench open the back door and follow at a distance, axe in
hand, berating your bruin-buffoon for transforming forever this be- nign acreage into something less safe, if more magical, where visiting
spirits leave behind their perfect signature, which, to all who will listen over dinner and wine, you reveal with a flourish at the tale’s
end, the garbage can’s rectangular lid and four neat punctures, arranged in a fan, an arc, like a winning hand of poker, jokers wild.
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