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  • Writer's pictureBruce Siebold

Knocking At My Door

The bear slowly stood and stretched his shaky legs, yawned, and after five months of sleeping, emerged from the safety of his winter den. He was hungry, but his usual summer diet of blackberries, apples, insects and fresh grass were no where to be found. So just after dark he appeared at my Eighty Acres doorstep to dine at my bird feeder's black sunflower seeds and greasy suet cakes. With my camera in hand I cautiously opened the front door. His coat was jet black in color, thick in texture, but looked like it would be soft to the touch. His ears were small yet his impressive feet and claws, plus large front teeth caused me too shudder. Fifteen feet from the entrance to the house, his penetrating eyes met mine. He stopped, turned his head slightly, my camera clicked and I closed the front door. The next morning I removed the bird feeders hoping he would move on to other food sources. I have no problem sharing Eighty Acres with the bear, but knocking on my front door must be by invitation only.

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