Mama Bear and her cubs

the “mama” in the bear

this bear is an impressive mama,

I love her sureness of self,

how solicitous she is with her cubs,

and how she also allows them space 

to follow their own leadings,

one cub found a fast food box

left by a construction worker on a new house

the bears were skirting,

the cub explored it for a  minute or two

with its remnants of fried chicken grease and sauces,

then realized mama and two siblings were no longer around,

an anxious scurry here and there, squawks of distress,

following the family smell the wrong way,

toward back to from where they came,

even heading toward me as if I might be a port in a storm,

I retreat so the mama won’t associate me with her cub’s distress

if mama suddenly reappears,

after about five minutes mama ambles back 

and makes sure cub and all are well,

keeping an eye on us

while loosely herding her own,

this mama bear is strong in body and spirit,

so similar to impressive human mothers I have known.

by Henry H. Walker

June 28, ‘20

we need to be together

we are of the herd

we humans have much of the herd in us,

a need to socialize, 

to touch each other,

both figuratively and literally,

the city where the jostle together

is where and how our species

is increasingly finding itself,

yet this virus pulls us away from crowds,

from mass transit and restaurant meals,

and we are denied the physical closeness of friends,

I feel for our young

who need to tussle about with friends,

like bear cubs feeling who they are

as they tumble about, together.

by Henry H. Walker

June 26, ‘20

the heron and the creek

A Great Blue Heron

the creek draws us:

we even call our place

“The Cabin on the Creek,”

kids lose themselves in it, by it,

letting whim pull them into adventures

in which stick, rocks, and water are transformed,

and so are they,

two days ago, the creek pulled a great blue heron to it,

the heron owned the creek by the cabin for a while,

and, what is amazing, we noticed it in time to watch it,

there must be many stories told beyond our notice,

I shadowed this magnificent bird for long careful minutes,

no abrupt moves, careful melding into its world,

so that I became just a part of its world, not a threat,

I took 73 pictures of the heron becoming one with the creek

stealthily moving up the stream,

stalking the minnows, each blissfully ignorant of it,

the slender neck elongating, pausing, then piercing the surface,

each time rewarded with a small fish in its rapier beak,

a quick swallow, and I could see the fish becoming the bird,

how thin it looked when it faced toward me,

how big it looked when it unfolded its wings,

how majestic it looked when it flew,

how wondrous it was that the heron and I had a time together,

while it fed its great hunger for fish,

and I fed my great hunger for wonder.

by Henry H. Walker

June 25, ‘20

dams of sand slip away

change riots

I once wrote of myself as a kid

“building dams of sand to watch them slip away,

change casually, intensively washes over the world,

what I hoped to be constants, all of a sudden

become a past that doesn’t repeat into the future,

by the cabin in the Smokies,

smaller rocks conglomerated against a car-sized stone

and allowed the creek to back up

and fill in some behind them,

then white water into the pool below,

in high water this step-up allowed

the roaring current to dig out the hole below,

leaving water deep enough to dip in,

climate change with its aggressive rains

scoured the rocks away,

trees I have known all my life have died in the last few years,

forest glades riot in new growth

forced to grow by what fire and wind have wrought,

Big Beech, first year after fire

Big Beech, now, June 2020

I age out of repeated experiences I have counted on,

and what is before me can tell me 

to forget the comfortable familiar,

and force me to deal with new unknowns,

the dams of sand slip away,

and I mourn the passing.

by Henry H. Walker

June 18, ‘20