Otherwise, a static day—
the snow huddled against the mountains,
the bike trail puddled over root-carved ravines,
we decided to go to war or not.
When we left, Ben gave me a field guide
in a bar we frequented. I didn’t read it
but went to a preserve to learn
to recognize my neighbors—
the bears fielding blueberries
from the paws of a young keeper
pitching them over the deck,
the caribou fencing, antlers clacking
like hockey sticks. In the gift shop,
a stack of pelts, fleshed and stretched;
a child stroking them and murmuring,
“Poor reindeer. Now he’s dead.”