Poetry by Carol Barrett
Translucent colors of sky loll in the stream,
such reverie, this dusk in the high desert,
a pour of beauty into my humble cup.
I relish the taste, sipping that place where blue
and dawn pink merge, flick a gnat from my sleeve.
Just then something stings the wits out of me,
the nose of a bear bigger than a hornet, sniffing
my favorite bench, no doubt where a dog had lifted
nimble leg. I raise my knees and slowly stand
on the plank, the bear paying little heed, ambling
down the bank to plunge his snout and drink.
I consider running, but we’re just yards apart,
fleeting distance daunting. I stand my ground,
writing tablet clutched, futile weapon, await
his next move. Strange how you can
count the clumps of grass in such a scene,
hoping not to bloody them. Five. I hear
far-away doves, watch a spider descend
from a black twig. She makes it to a leaf.
The bear has had enough, climbs the bank,
leaves the path for needled footing,
disappears over a small rise. I come down
from my perch, thank the gods, head home,
remembering family camp at Spirit Lake,
how my uncle crept up behind my father,
snoozing in a hammock, and let out a blood-
curdling growl. My father sat bolt upright,
then brought his breathing back from the cliff
while my uncle laughed. Fear can knock a soul
to dust. Here, the shimmering red of sunset
is winding down. You, dear reader, must decide
if I made this racket up, or told the truth
to put the beast to rest. I alone know how
it all played out. And the bear, of course.
Carol Barrett directs the Creative Writing Certificate Program at Union Institute & University. She has two volumes of poetry and one of creative nonfiction. A former NEA Fellow in Poetry, Carol has published poems in such diverse venues as JAMA, The Women’s Review of Books, Poetry International, and Oregon Birds.
