A Polar Bear’s Dreams
I have dreams. I sleep the winter through, so of course dreams are a big part of the passing of time–while my mate wanders around for three months– I am busy, sleeping and growing my cubs.
I dream of being brown. I dream of being black. I am in a green place, so incredibly lush with berries and nuts and streams full of fish. And in my snow- den, growing my cubs, I dream of a warm cave where I sleep. Sometimes I dream of a den beneath the roots of a tree.
Trees, oh the trees–these tall structures that I climb–in my dreams. I can see to the ends of the earth–in those tree tops. I can see the lakes and creatures that fly through the air–that’s right–fly and circle above me. I can see land that swells to great heights and land that stretches out flatly. With me, in the trees, are small creatures that scurry away at the sight of me–furry with long tails and other small creatures–also furry with long, slick tails who open their tiny mouths and try to be brave, snarling at me. But in the end, every creature runs from me. I must be queen in my dreams–in this place in my dreams.
And the trees–they give forth a nourishment of indescribable ecstasy–a golden substance, sticky and sweet–heaven itself.
In my dreams I am hot. Imagine, hot–so hot I seek the pools of water and swim about for hours–in my dreams.
In the end, when I’m roused with pain–the dreams are over and the cubs come forth and suckle me in my white den of snow. Soon we will emerge–my two cubs and me to a world–flat, white and cold.
© Glenda Kotchish
March 8, 2016