When You Crawl Outside of the Bear
you will always try to crawl back in.
Even when the world stops spinning
and a blue heron rises in front of you
like a dream you once had
or the spirit of someone you love.
The middle of a sunny afternoon at the water’s edge.
A walk you’re taking to see birds,
something passing through on its way to another world.
Somewhere sunnier, probably.
In your hand, a fly rod, to draw
all the secrets out of the water. If only a bite, a strike.
There’s always a bear, even when there isn’t a bear.
And there it is, the fish caught on the bank, wriggling in the sunlight.
Sometimes the hook is out before you’re even on your knees.
Hold the fish under water, feel it catch its breath
in your hands, before it disappears into some shadow place.
Somewhere you can’t fit into. Not yet.
Laura Stott is a poet of the Intermountain West, but she also spent a decade of summers in Southeast Alaska guiding hikes and eventually birthed her most recent book, The Bear’s Mouth, about parenting, child loss, and the land, due from Lynx House Press in fall 2024. She is also the author of the poetry collections Blue Nude Migration and In the Museum of Coming and Going.
Header photo by Parilov, courtesy Shutterstock.
