The Garden of Verse: Wildlife in the Driveway in September's New Poems

I’m offering three occasional poems in the September 2021 issue of Verse-Virtual. The first of these recounts a rare occasion -- at least I hope it proves rare -- of a wildlife visit to our summer cottage in Berkshire County, Mass. 

The two other poems, "When You Are Lost" and "As Times Change" address the sort of things that happen, one way or another on our personal journeys through time and space, rather more often.

Here's the poem about the bear: 

The Bear at the Bottom of the Driveway

Not actually the bottom,
but where the blacktop swerves, 

     almost at a right angle
on its leafy way to Mahkeenac Road,
that pleasant artery named for the people replaced 
     by those who built the road
 
The trashcan belonging to the house

     at the driveway’s bend is empty now,
and perhaps our black bear has failed to make 

     its acquaintance 
in its more fetchingly odorous state,
as no debris is visible,
but the creature, larger now than when last 
     I made his acquaintance
at this very swerve in life’s path,
many moons before,
is snorffling contentedly in a wallow of wild roughage
not far from the hard, man-thing container
 
And wholly visible from the back-end of my car 
which I am about to load with inedibles, clothing,

laundry,

     his and her laptop computers and –

how could I forget? –
some garbage of our own,    
in preparation for imminent departure
 
Well, old man – or, ‘young fellow’ – we meet again!
We exchange a look,
then each goes back to his business,
mine the popping of the trunk 
and the loading of luggage happily not too fragrant
The visitor moves his feeding station a few steps, 
     to the other side of some thinly-leafed brush,
agreeing to disagree with my disaffection 

     for his presence,
but not doing anything truly about it
 
Two minutes later, as I bear a second load 

     for the trunk,
a car rolls up the drive and parks in front 

     of the trashcan house, 
a mere few feet from the bear, still unambiguously 

     present,
the car blocking my view of the scavenger
When the driver emerges, I call what I believe 
     to be a salient observation:
“There’s a bear on the other side of your car.”
He responds, “I know.”
                                                              
Not knowing what else he might know 

     or not know
(is he the house’s owner or a short-term renter?)
I attempt a pitched-voice dialogue 

     at uneasy distance –
the man too far for talking, the bear 

     too close for comfort –
unwilling to take a single step toward to our visitor,
while not entirely clear on the nature 

     of our relations.
To my neighbor I draw attention to the trash can,
implying a preference for its removal.
The other’s replies are brief and unapologetic, 
as if waiting for me to advance a quarrel,
a thing I do not easily do, 

     whether an interested bear 
     is listening or not…
 
Minutes later, the car loaded for the long trip home,
we roll down the drive to the swerve
and glance up as the man, a woman, and a little girl
lean on the railing of the house’s abbreviated deck,
gazing down in wonder at the bear,
in what appears to be the rapture of the innocents,
as if they have utterly no inkling
     that they’re the creatures in our zoo.

 To see the other two September poems, see Verse-Virtual