I haven’t seen the bear since that night last spring

when he came to the feeders by the window

where I write and we saw each other

and stopped what we were doing

to see each others eyes--he looking in, me looking out.

At first, he was standing looking down at me

as I looked up and then he went to the window

closer to the sill and I moved my face towards him

and saw the white marks on his snout

and don’t know what he saw or thought of me

in those minutes when our strange lives came

together. I know that he’s not tame like me

but was glad he brought his wildness

to my life and wondered if his presence

was a gift, a sign like native Americans think--an omen

about awakening, rebirth, coming from his winter

sleep or just his hunger and coincidence,

not meant to be more than his taking what he found,

indifferent to who I am or how our lives are intertwined.

It’s me who wants significance,

who wants to believe that nothing is unplanned,

random and haphazard, that there is order,

harmony and meaning, that life makes sense

and is explainable. So who’s to say that when I

looked into his eyes that night or heard him

on the porch that it was any different than the storms

that blow in from the sea and bend the trees

with wind and wildness shouting--

there’s no escape from whatever comes,

nothing I can understand to bring me peace,

and so I sit back in my chair, looking out

at dawn bringing me this day and think about

the bear and me living with uncertainty and hunger.