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. Whittled away, fibers of torn tartan. Greased metal and worn leather.

The birds take flight, Though they don’t know why. Musk emits a malleable stench. Superimposed smokey signatures. Taut in the shoulder, Loose in the wrist. on-the-Hudson Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum oil paint on canvas

Inhale, exhale. The sleek steel sings soundlessly. A hundred thousand ants, Felled beneath the beast.