First the sow and then the cub
flat-faced, gouache-furred
up above the service road
climbing the bike trail
through thick black alder—
then the cub but not the sow, still not
the sow, just wind in the tall grass,
presentiments and doubts

.

A day later, at the border,
waiting in line, looking at photos,
car after car, lurching forward,
again the menace of the unseen,
an arbitrary line, truck routes,
corn fields drawn at right angles,
the same on each side except
here, we are fine, here too,
but maybe less so