My desktop display is autumn leaves,
Golden flakes letting go,
Precursors of snow.
I dream of bears and their need for meat.
“Eat meat,” I hear them say,
Ancestor spirits, guides.
At first, I interpret their words as a literal need
to awaken my teeth,
open each one to tear, grind, chew,
but then, Bear reaches with warm, furry arms,
“Nest where power brews.
Draw in to the cave of simmered strength.
Let jaw stand for truth,
where living is honored as stew.”