by Mark Vogel
The big and rough lumbers early, used to getting its way,
especially in the Tetons. Visiting tourists wake
to mountains mimicking a black and white
Ansel Adams print. Before the day is real
surreal mist rises off the water, and a single
puny human takes the trail flanked by bush willow,
the July frost glittering in clarity not yet heat.
Ahead round the first bend a steaming mound—
the red mangled remains of elk calf,
recognized as the dreamlike mother bear,
bigger than imagined, emerges from willows,
small eyes focused, coming to him like she
has waited for this moment.
So appropriately shocking the heavy un-filmed
scene when he turns, pathetic trying to flee,
when she has him, her mouth huge, biting again
and again thigh, shoulder, shoe, her cloying smell
earthy—he is fear kernelized, the action too fast,
never seeing two yearling cubs in cute curiosity
growling and feinting, threatening his twitching legs
as he lays surreal in disappearing fog, on autopilot
preparing to die, even as a hiker appears 200 feet away,
yelling like a good boy scout, running forward
until the bear party breaks apart. The crumpled
tourist stares at gravel, never feeling the 911
helicopter flying above dead end trails
and wilderness, straight to Idaho. Like an
an electrical short disconnecting then connecting,
the newest hikers don’t believe stories told and retold
walking the trails, making noise, following rules
like children, imagining steaming wet mounds.
Retreating to the lodge to spy through panoramic
windows on animals at home, in awe we can’t
help but see sentience as a private book-like
possession, though we are distracted by a
luxurious schedule, and the lunch arriving
garnished with pine nuts, with meat arranged
on the side, the blood drained away.