by Molly O’Dell

In the cool green of this early morning, the road to the river’s more like a sanctuary than state route on the way to the store. Just onto the grit and gravel section, past a grove of seven walnut trees, I brake when a black bear cub scampers across the lane and disappears into shadows beneath a kudzu thicket. Back off the other side of the road, in a small meadow, mama bear watches, tall on her hind legs. She does not move. Because no one should get caught between a cub and its mother, I close the car windows, lock the door and behold dark black fur glistening in the sunlight. Her large head holds well-spaced ears, a pale Roman muzzle with a wet nose and small eyes that look directly at me as if in recognition. After time enough to sing the doxology, I slowly drive forward, crane my neck to glimpse her head turn to watch me leave before she lowers herself down and moves back to business, her cub across the road.

Molly O’Dell loves being outdoors. Her writing is influenced by her work as a physician and the natural surroundings of her home in southwest Virginia. She received an MFA from the University of Nebraska and published Off the Chart, a chapbook; Care is a Four-Letter Verb, a multi-genre collection; and Unsolicited: 96 Saws and Quips in the Wake of the Pandemic, written for her public health colleagues. Her most recent work has appeared in Streetlight Magazine, The Banyan Review, Snapdragon, Oyster River Pages and Friends. She currently serves as the poetry editor for the Journal of Medical Humanities.