Of What Use Is War?

Of What Use Is War?

I am old, but still want things to surprise me
and often they do: a black bear is guarding
West Point's Stony Lonesome Gate, fur slick

as glass, dark as a bird's eye! Only one of our
sweet earth's many beasts, the bear is chewing
something—calm, belly rippling, at the end

of an early winter Sunday, beneath a dull sky
clotted with ivory clouds. And a road—shadowless,
glimmering with rock salt—runs alongside

the bear's black, black paws! I think of dormitory
lights flickering on in the dusk, of cadets
walking to dinner—and the bear, which most

likely climbed out of a garbage dumpster but
looks military-tidy: an army of one. Traffic
capers onto both sides of route 9W! Brake lights!

People point their phones. The world is so full of
foolishness and beauty. Of what use is war?
A black bear is guarding Stony Lonesome Gate!