Late afternoon, past Spirit Lake,
the sun lowering to the southwest
beyond the Columbia, both sides
of the highway darkening into brush,
the sky birdless, I spot the bear, his
furred haunches heavy in twilight
and moving slow. I pronounce bear
and drive on past. South to the river.
Across the bridge. Water reflecting
the orange sky. I keep on driving.
Soon, my town. My street. My house.
I turn on the lights and pour the soup
into a pot. The bear back in the brush,
I could have stopped by the roadside.
I turn up the burner. Could have but
didn’t. When my husband comes in,
I stare. His thick hair. Trimmed beard.
We eat supper. At last get into bed.
Pull up our quilt. Switch off the light.
My hand reaches. I touch the bear.
