Trails

The fog clings greasy gray
visibility is limited to the knowing
Those that see the water fall
and understand the river's course
Those that speak in birdsong
and sleep on moss
and chase the gnomes from the haunts
of rabbits and woodpeckers

The Bear's head swings side to side
in a reverie of the senses
There is never an easy prey
always the constant hunger
The scents laid before him
bespeak a choice of chance
except that hers is one them
and has crossed his path