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.
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