…is rambling in the emerald slough down off the gravel road you’re on, don’t worry.
Late summer north of Fairbanks means single-minded forage. Sedge grass, blueberries, freshest carrion.
Your job is to drive just another half mile: set up the seismograph station. You can leave the van running.
Trudge to the station now. Spade ripe earth, nest sensors; speed up as ravens trail to silence.
Gather tools, check distance back, so far your judgment’s been good; remember you have a gun in this van.
Moving quick now just a few more feet grim reminder of the why of that gun. Grueling drills Army style.
Cheery ex-special ops trainer went through at least five weapons. Each with its own strong recoil.
Van trundles forward. Thrum the only animal noise in a pine-fenced world. And then one breath later
round the corner comes that young black bear. Shifting from paw to paw he considers. You horn blare and push forward. He veers into
dense willow stands. Back to the slough. You have to wonder at the when of this bear.
You had lunch at the canteen several months ago. There was a young shy geologist. You chatted about research, weather.
She was eating a tuna fish sandwich. Held by pincer claws fitted to her prosthetics. Why only last field season
she joyfully mapped in glorious country. Rocks, pines, and air too beautiful to be believed. And then a young black bear came by for her.
Elizabeth Ambos writes and lives in Washington, DC. She has enjoyed braided careers as a geoscientist, teacher, researcher, and administrator in higher education-affiliated ecosystems. A participant in the PocketMFA program, she is currently working on her MFA in Creative Writing at Hood College. She has published recently or has work forthcoming in Wild Roof Journal, Gramercy Review, Tangled Locks Journal, Please See Me, Dos Gatos Press, and Dancing Girl Press.
