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by Carla Baku
Today a black bear walks the creek and treads the footprints I left there yesterday. Drinking, she tastes the salt I shed, mixed with a green note, the spring falling through ferns. Across her nose, a caress — ripples that pulsed away from my throat, standing in water, speaking to rocks, to trees. Perhaps she hears an echo still: Thank you. Thank you.
Today a black bear walks the creek and treads the footprints
I left there yesterday. Drinking, she tastes the salt I shed,
mixed with a green note, the spring falling through ferns.
Across her nose, a caress — ripples that pulsed away
from my throat, standing in water, speaking to rocks, to trees. Perhaps she hears
an echo still: Thank you. Thank you.
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