I see Mukwa once a year now.

He's my cousin,

And I love him.

We both seem to wind up at the barrens

About the time that the sandcherries ripen.

Across the meadow I see him,

He raises his head in half a nod.

He doesn't speak words anymore,

But I understand the meaning.

He acknowledges me,

But doesn't want me to come any closer.

The Cherokee tell the story

Of how the bear became the bear.

Some of the antisocial men

Took to living in the forest by themselves,

And slowly they evolved,

But the Cherokee still consider 

The Mukwa to be their distant cousins.

Mukwa, you are not so distant to me,

For I, too, have moved,

Far away from the backside of humanity.

I have not evolved like you

With fur and better teeth.

You are smarter than I am.

But I do the best I can,

Bumming the corners

And playing music.

And, my fellow gypsy band

Does not call me Ursa Major,

But because they know I know

Where to find the sweet sandcherries

And the bitter persimmons,

They say I'm a cousin to the bear

And a second cousin to the Cherokee,

And so they have dubbed me Hobo Sapiens.

-jenn