Blood of the Indian Paintbrush

An agile Cinnamon bear Saunters across rusty snow A treacherous avalanche path. Meandering through fields Bathed in Indian Paintbrush And Columbine, Purple Elephants forcing their faces Through marshy creek beds. A futile attempt to find Berries so near to tundra and sky, The great sow tears open Rotted logs, finding morsels Of insect meat. The day moves into night And yet another sun rises, To the scope of a killer, lurking In the vast green of the pines. The sow strolls to creeks edge For her last luscious drink Lapping the cool crystal waters Of her youth. He watches motionless... In all the field's beauty She falls motionless there Staining the ground as red As the Indian Paintbrush. I cried when I heard That my memory of yesterday Today lay dead. I pity that poacher The kind of man blind To beauty and grace Who killed a Cinnamon bear And ran off with her head.