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A thunderclap last night shook me awake, to watch a black bear clamber down our pine and rumble through the yard. I could just make out her shape from the open door—glimpsed the shine of her rain-soaked fur, caught the strange, burnt scent of her on the midnight air. She worried at the garden gate, pressed until it bent beneath her probing snout. Then, unhurried, she glanced back at me. A bit of streetlight glinted in her eye as she turned to go. And I remained, on that midsummer night, with things I often see and sometimes know: the mist and darkness closing in again, the rising wind, and the returning rain.
