Death on the Banks of the Yellowstone

At the age of 23, I sat on the banks of the Yellowstone,
Watched as a Grizzly swam out to a rock
Where the salmon rise to the surface and jump.
I observed that a bear when fishing
Always ambidextrous, ready with left paw,
Right paw equally thick and padded—
Could take out a horse if one suddenly appeared.

Whipsawing through swift water, the salmon
Swam swift in the strong current, light glistening
Rainbow colors from wet scales, urgently driven,
Ten thousand miles it swam upstream to spawn
With uncanny precision at the bed of gravel
Where it emerged from an egg and first knew life.

The bear was driven by simple hunger to fish,
Empty belly a force more decisive than play—
His paws thick, claws sharp as a hook to catch,
Mouth open as wide as a net. I heard the rush of water,
Saw streak of red blood flow, snap of bone,
And soon live fish was swallowed whole.

I was not myself as I watched.
I was the bear. I was the fish.
I was the rock. I was the water. I was the Sun above.
I was hunger. I was death. I was witness.
There were no words, no language to speak—
How quick the sacrifice, the meal, no plate to wash,
Move on to catch the next fish and then the next.
This is the world. And this is the work of the world.

Heart was entangled for hours, for days—
Memories of watching a bull fight in Spain,
Killing a wild rabbit just for fun when I was twelve,
Sunlit grass washed in blood that I had spilled,
Splashing onto my feet, now wet and doomed.
I cannot say where it all began, out in the mist,
Jaws of guilt, desire to eat flesh, memories surface
As driftwood floating in from the shipwreck.

And I am the bear. And I am the fish.
And I am caught in the Jaws of Time,
Born with mortal soul; burning alive as an ember.
Never known; always alone. The world as my witness—
Salt of the sea runs in my veins, washing finally ashore,
Praying for Grace not to be dead but Awake.