The Bear Joseph Fisk
A hundred thousand miles, In terms of an ant. Heavy paws break their backs. A crunch and they’re gone. It pads through bundles of green, The reclusive killing machine. Borne of mountains and muck. Now not quite so collusive. on-the-Hudson Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum oil paint on canvas
Whittled away, fibers of torn tartan. Greased metal and worn leather.
Taut in the shoulder, Loose in the wrist.
The birds take flight, Though they don’t know why.
Inhale, exhale. The sleek steel sings soundlessly.
Musk emits a malleable stench. Superimposed smokey signatures.
A hundred thousand ants, Felled beneath the beast.
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