The Black Bear

Softly. Quietly. A long soft and quiet sigh. They come for what is
left. An army of tiny men without a leader. They cannot pick it up for
it is huge. It smells to them &;#8209;&;#8209; it reeks. They
have to drag it away like an old rug raising dust.

The fire comes next. The air dances around it. The tiny men can go on
their way. The leader watches from above.

Soot in a mason jar. Its weight is counted by the ounce, but it seems a
heavy burden as I walk among the Big Trees. To where the Black Bear
walks. And leave it there in a silent moment. A rustling off by the
creek, the Black Bear has seen me.