by RB Brown

Those early days, finding its way to the shore
the breeze was uncertain.

A full-grown bear clawed the first tree,
decided bears eat blackberries.

Chrysanthemum, cornflower, dragonwort.
Drunk on nectar bees crossed the garden.

It was one language and they all spoke it,
the sound of names fresh on all their tongues.

Crisp and terrible. Nothing prepared them
for that first bite, another beginning.