Bear

He has been awake all night, ever since the bear took the lid off the can of bird seed, peeked in, shrugged, then stood down and stared at him through the porch door. (He thinks bear; he doesn’t know the word raccoon.) The curious black eyes fascinated him, the mask, the delicate fingers and toes, the way the bear stood on his hind legs, the striped tail big as his own. He whimpered through the screen door. The bear didn’t answer but went lumping up the hill, into the night. He tried to follow, ran from window to window, whimpering.

Now the sun is up and so are the people, wanting to play with him, but he’s sleepy and frustrated and hot. It’s summer; his fur is thick. The man brushes him. He does not want to be brushed. He does not want to be thick and orange. He wants to be gray like the bear, with small round ears. He wants delicate fingers and toes, not big tufted feet. He wants to be wild, to disappear into the night. He wants a mask. The man keeps stroking him with the stupid plastic brush.

He hisses.