A Poet

Arthur always wanted to be a poet. In the mornings when the pinkish hue of sunrise crossed his muddy pond, melting the black forest into a scattering of shadows cast by darkened treetops, he would rub his back along his favorite tree trunk and compose a short poem.

The reflection of reddish rays

On the water's summery haze

Shed shadows from the forest floor

Painted as bright and bitter berries

A morning feast

He wasn't a very good poet, though no one told him so. No one could listen to his poetry. He tried to find an audience that loved the outdoors as much as he. He spied others in his field, picking berries, fishing in square tins that floated on the lake, or walking along the trails near his den. He would approach these visitors, rise up, and project his voice hoping to catch an inquisitive ear. 

Rough hewn channels made smooth

By water flowing in grooves

Where are the fish?

In response, people would pale and run away in fright. Brandishing large sticks and bags, sometimes they would spray an orange mist at him. The mist clogged his snout and made his voice hoarse for weeks. “Oh my God, it’s a bear!” they would scream. Arthur wasn't sure how they felt about the poetry.

The lack of feedback had yet to deter Arthur who spent his nights wandering through the forest, led by his sense of smell and his desire to immortalize beauty with a turn of phrase. One night, Arthur feasted on a gut pile while the moon hid behind turbulent clouds. His claws dripped with the raw flesh, flies swarmed his coarse fur in a buzzing halo. He tried to find the perfect metaphor for a gut pile feast. It’s something like the bounty of a sunny day on a moist field of flowers. Something about the smell itching his nose like his favorite scratching tree scratched his back. His belly sated for the moment Arthur sat back on his haunches breathing in the cool night air. He could smell another bear nearby, watching him, waiting for the scraps of his feast. Another smell was in the air too, growing with the breeze, putrid and sour. Arthur stood on his hind legs, angling his head near the smell. He set off, the smell’s intensity grew bolder as Arthur ambled through the trees. The forest was so still as he traveled over rocks and exposed roots. He heard the fluttering of wings in the branches above him but the way forward was quiet. 

In no time, he came to the edge of a clearing. There was a sleeping human rolled up like a caterpillar hanging between two trees just beyond Arthur’s reach. The human smelled, but not like the mesmerizing fetid musk of the bundle hanging from a nearby tree. Arthur approached the tree, standing on his hind legs, his paws swiping at the bundle just out of reach. Each brush ushered the smell closer to his snout, driving subsequent swipes with an eager urgency. There’s a poem here, Arthur thought, something about sweet treats, just out of reach, from desire colored with stained claws.

The human caterpillar rustled, exposing a shocked white face from the layers of soft wrapping. Arthur fell down onto his front legs, turning to face the human. The human seemed to be stuck, flailing widely but still trapped in its cocoon. Finally, Arthur thought, a captive audience. With a giant roar Arthur composed a short poem.

Eat in my forest

Sweet, putrid, slick

Licked from my lips

Warm in my den

The human shouted, its arms freed and waving above its head. Arthur couldn’t tell if these were the raptures of a heart moved, or if the poem was too literal to be taken seriously. Real criticism is a privilege of the beloved. The human finally freed itself from its confines, crashing to the ground. It scrambled in the clearing, grabbing at a sack, kicking up dirt. 

Arthur growled, constructive feedback is so hard to come by. He rushed at the human, sinking his teeth into a bony chunk. There was a new smell in the clearing now, hot blood and excrement. The human screamed, wings aflutter in the overhead trees screeched in response. What a terrible poem, Arthur thought, tediously one note. 

With a flick of his head Arthur tossed the human away, it landed hard in a bed of leaves. It moved slowly now, grasping its wound but not threatening to flee. Something shiny and small was in its hand. The object had a unique smell, like the embers of a burning forest. Arthur knew it wasn’t customary to attack the audience, but he also knew that most things he bit were much more docile. The human’s blood dotted his fur, when Arthur licked his lips it tasted buttery and salty. The human was quite bony, but maybe, Arthur thought, after one more poem, I can have another taste. He gave a low growl and composed a poem.

What sweet lullaby

Plays across my snout

The ardor of odor 

In a lonely forest

Only your sent sings to me

Surely the human will like that, Arthur thought, everyone likes a love poem. Arthur could see the center of the human pulsing like water bubbling over rocks in his river. Its white face betraying no opinion or preference. Arthur huffed, to perform and not even be acknowledged was an insult to the effort. He growled again, bending down, tensing his muscles to pounce. He gripped the forest floor, wiping the blood from his claws. He’d never met another bear poet before, maybe it simply was not in a bear’s nature to put word to feeling. However, bears were well versed in pursuits of blood and strength and the glorious putrid feast. If he could not show the human his skills as a poet, this demonstration of tooth and claw would be an undeniable performance.

Bloody and panicked, with the slick metal object in their hand the human delivered a one note review.

BAM