The last time I was in Yellowstone
the park ranger told me
a hiker had been found half-eaten
most likely by a bear—

nothing and no one else
around him except a dirty backpack
lying half open next to his body:
best not to travel alone,
the ranger said, especially
on those back-country trails,
and carry some bear spray,
or learn how to play dead.

In the Tang Dynasty, Zhang Ji
slept in a village near a bear’s den;
even the tigers and deer 
knew not to make a sound—
but once, in danger, he recited a poem
while the villagers slipped away,
then shared a bowl of rice wine
with the bear, waiting until it fell asleep.

But most times that won’t help;
no amount of art or artifice
will keep you safe—
it’s just bad luck to run into a grizzly,
and Zhang Ji probably lied,
returning the next year to the village
marrying a woman 
he nicknamed Little Bear.