Rising in robes,
our mothers shuffled to the porch
with hot chocolate to watch us.
Steam rose to their lips when they sipped.
Like cubs with mother bears, we tiptoed
and pounced, chased shadows past shrubs
and berry vines. Whatever spoor we could find,
we crouched for, wishing for growls
in the forest, coyotes, cougars or bears.
Bolstered by sunlight, we bragged
what we'd do to wolves, miles from town.
Nights, after hiking to boulders,
we sat with our parents in moonlight,
swinging our legs off the deck
over darkness under the house. We heard
ghost stories of trappers who froze,
bears that ate babies. No one shoved back
by his parents, but we all sneaked peeks
below our legs, the dirt six feet below us
dark, as far away as dawn.
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