a spirit on the mountain

The bear spirit rumbles through the trees, dragging the wind and pushing the sun. In his footprints burst new sprouts from the earth. His claws open the way for seedlings to the air and worms to the soil. His hair combs the dust from the breezes. His voice is the thunder, rolling on the mountainside at night, under dark clouds and chilling drops of water. He keeps the wheel of life turning relentlessly, uprooting a tree that has stood for centuries, or for months. A baby bird is protected from a fox or hawk, or crushed under his paw. His saliva slithers to the ground to form a stream that feeds the green plants, or rushes over them, drowning or pulling them from their earthy bed. He seeks out the parcels of cracked, parched earth and leaves a swamp in his wake. He moves at the speed of wind and the slowness of sunlight over the skin of the world. The mountain spirit is always present but never there.