Hunting The Bear Poem by David Welch

Conner woke up in his hotel
and looked to the small clock.
He'd slept through his early alarm,
it was later than he thought.

He leapt up and quickly dressed,
for he had a job to do,
so he pulled on his camo pants,
and readied his rifle too.

A problem bear wandered about
this small, Wyoming town.
A grizzly, it had killed three dogs,
twas his job to bring it down.

The bear population had thrived of late,
so this happened more and more,
Fish and Game would send him out
to do what some deplored.

Like the protesters who's dogged him
the last two days on the trail,
making noise so any close game
would hear them and turn tail.

They said killing the bear was cruel,
they were here to protect it,
so Conner had tried to wake early
to avid them on this trip.

He expected to see all of them
when he went out to his truck,
Instead he saw nary a soul,
he cold not believe his luck!

He drove then to a patch of forest
near the town's big campground,
sightings here had him convinced
that the grizzly was lurking ‘round.

Into evergreen woods he strode,
past boulders gray and tall,
though steep ravines and parklands
wearing the coat of early fall.

For two hours he had no luck
looking for tracks or sign.
No scat, no fur, nothing at all,
he feared he'd wasted time.

Then he saw a trail of fresh prints
straight through the piney duff,
and from a thicket to his left
came a raspy, guttural huff.

He peered deep, saw the brown head
of a massive grizzly's bear
If fed on something, big teeth stained
with a slick, crimson veneer.

It paused then, sniffing the air,
seeing not Conner on the hunt.
He hoisted his rifle, sliding left,
carefully sighting the gun.

The bear returned to his great feast,
and the trigger squeezed on back.
The gun barked, led striking deep,
the bear roared at the attack.

It raced off into the woods,
dashing for a creekside,
but the bullet had rent it's heart,
it stumbled, fell, and died.

Conner walked up to the bear,
reloading quickly as he went,
ever ready to let loose again
if the bruin was not spent.

But the bear was truly down and dead,
it would pass no more this way.
Then Conner glanced in horror at
the grizzly's final prey…

He saw a spot of blue amidst
a horrid, scarlet smear,
then a touch of orange and green,
he knew it was no deer.

Pacing close he saw the ruin
of what was a human face
torn by claws and awesome force,
he gagged and turned away.

Despite the damage he knew the man,
he'd seem him the day before,
twas the young hippie who'd led the fools,
who'd led the protestors.

Conner fought the urge to vomit,
to just take off and sprint,
fool or not, no man could deserve
what had been done to him.

He knew he had to find a place,
where he'd get cell reception.
the police needed to see all this
and take the proper actions.

He asked himself how this had come,
but knew the answer clear,
the problem bear had walked right in,
devoid of fright or fear.

He figured that it had found their camp,
maybe drawn by food smells.
it had come at night, found this young man
and dragged him into Hell.

Conner shook his head and sighed,
Then said to the empty air:
'Damnit kid, why couldn't you let me
hunt this stinking bear…'