I stand alone, staring up
at a great bronze statue.
It is the statue of a bear,
detailed, huge, and imposing,
as real bears often are.
Towering over me on his
pedestal, his two hind legs
like thick furry tree trunks,
one shaggy arm raised high
over his head, the sunlight
glinting of the smooth tip
of each claw, the bear stares
down at me, frozen in the act
of bringing his massive paw
down upon my fragile head.
His mouth is open, revealing
his sharp teeth, and it seems
to me he is also glaring, as
if to say, "Compared to me,
you are nothing. Here you
rule, but in the woods I am
the king, so fear me, human,
respect and fear me."
Many a human life has been
taken by the bear because
the had no fear, no respect.
Bears do not suffer fools,
and they aren't cuddly ether.
This bear statue I see is
a tribute to a king who is
slowly losing his kingdom,
rising up in his wrath, one
paw raised to smite his enemies,
his eyes full of defiance of me,
and all the others who come
to stare and photograph him,
the statue of a fearsome
animal-king of the vanishing
forests of the wilderness.
