by William Doreski
 
Several bears emerge from the woods. They should be hibernating. But they want to confer with me. They want me to cede to them the forested part of my property. I’m willing to do so if they promise not to eat me. They look at each other, then at me. I can see they’re disgusted. “Bears don’t eat rotten meat,” they explain. Rotten meat? I resent that. The sky lowers, threatening more snow. I apologize for my assumption but feel they should apologize for referring to me so crudely. They point out that people are always killing each other, unlike bears, and it’s reasonable to assume that at my age I’ve been killed several times. Therefore, I must be thoroughly decayed by now. I’m horrified by this over-reading of the human condition but can’t deny that there’s logic in it. The bears explain that they and humans just can’t get along, and that’s why they want the deed to my wooded acres. I admit this makes sense, so agree to discuss it with my lawyer. “Lawyer!” they exclaim. “Let us know where his office is, and we’ll report him to the buzzards.”

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William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021).  He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors.  His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.