There’s a bear in the Truro woods. <br />People have seen it - three or four, <br />or two, or one. I think <br />of the thickness of the serious woods <br />around the dark bowls of the Truro ponds; <br />I think of the blueberry fields, the blackberry tangles, <br />the cranberry bogs. And the sky <br />with its new moon, its familiar star-trails, <br />burns down like a brand-new heaver, <br />while everywhere I look on the scratchy hillsides <br />shadows seem to grow shoulders. Surely <br />a beast might be clever, be lucky, move quietly <br />through the woods for years, learning to stay away <br />from roads and houses. Common sense mutters: <br />it can’t be true, it must be somebody’s <br />runaway dog. But the seed <br />has been planted, and when has happiness ever <br />required much evidence to begin <br />its leaf-green breathing?<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-truro-bear/
