Rose Lennard

Thin Air

There was a black bear nearby, out of sight, all through that last year. When we hiked in mountains I thought about pepper spray, set out with a small bell jingling on my pack. I took it off. The bear was there, no matter what I did. Sometimes it was close by in the dark of the woods, sometimes just beyond the shoulder of the land. It knew my smell. I saw its scat on the trail, the seeds of berries. Once it left a pawprint in soft mud, twice my palm. At night I sensed its big slow heartbeat just beyond the nylon skin we sheltered within; I knew the moonlight was silvering its fur, its paws smelt of juniper and pine. I lay beside my sleeping man, sleepless.

We didn’t see the bear, although it followed us home. I thought I glimpsed its bulk once or twice, slipping with surprising stealth down alleys, beside a garage. I never mentioned it. There were so many things we could not speak of.

wildness under my skin
learning to dance
barefoot

---

About the Author

Rose Lennard reckons few things feel as good as writing poetry. She writes with a sense of curiosity, seeking that place where the magic of words meets the truth of experience. Her poems have been published in Rattle, Stand, Prole, Atrium, Ink Sweat & Tears, Quartet, and others.

---