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.