The Truro Bear

There’s a bear in the Truro woods.
People have seen it – three or four,
Or two, or one. I think
Of the thickness of the serious woods
Around the dark bowls of the Truro ponds;
I think of the blueberry fields, the blackberry tangles,
The cranberry bogs. And the sky
With its new moon, its familiar star-trails,
Burns down like a brand-new heaver,
While everywhere I look on the scratchy hillsides
Shadows seem to grow shoulders. Surely
A beast might be clever, be lucky, move quietly
Through the woods for years, learning to stay away
From roads and houses. Common sense mutters:
It can’t be true, it must be somebody’s
Runaway dog. But the seed
Has been planted, and when has happiness ever
Required much evidence to begin
Its leaf-green breathing?

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The Truro Bear