Bears That Remember the Drum

They wait in stillness, eyes like stone. By sacred trees where moss has

grown. No trail to mark, no guide,

no gate. Just breath held deep, and ancient

faith. The wind moves oh, the forest hums, a pulse beneath

the distant drum. Not hunters now but watchers true, who guard the path you never

knew. Their memory walks where men forget, through storms and years and colder

threat. They don't chase prey, they track the flame.

The rhythm lost, the truest name. Their claws are ink, their steps are