Luck

On the third & last day of bear season, the hunter returns to his perch on the boulder more from habit than any realistic hope. But every rustle in the leaves still summons up the childhood excitement of static on a shortwave radio: some signal that might come in, given patience & a delicate touch.

So when the bear appears, his breathing scarcely changes, the rifle rises to his shoulder, the scope to his eye & the world grows closer by a power of ten, centered on a plus sign that moves along the great neck

to the suddenly immobile head, snout riveted on something just under the moss. Then the claw’s shattering descent, a fountain of dirt. He watches as the yellow jackets form a furious halo.