The White Ghost

Shooting at animals, yet not with a gun,

No boom or blast to make them run,

Capturing them without a net,

Upon the tripod his camera was set.

Wearing green to blend in with the forest,

Of all his siblings he was the poorest,

Choosing not to be doctor or lawyer,

Picking instead to be photographer,

Out in the woods to seek something rare,

Of British Columbia, the Spirit bear.

White like the clouds, yet not quite albino,

Their cousins are black, like music disks-vinyl.

Hearing a cracking of a branch nearby,

He looked through his lens, squinting one eye,

A bear indeed was wandering through,

But black was it’s fur, grazing it chewed.

Disappointed at the false alarm,

Suddenly felt goosebumps on his arm,

Raising like needles, tense was his hair,

Behind him was the Spirit bear.

Raising his camera to take the shot,

Roughly ten seconds was all he got,

Before the bear latched onto his arm,

His ferocious claws doing much harm,

Leaving the man mangled in death,

He said quietly with his dying breath,

“The Spirit bear I have finally caught,”

But the picture, with his life was bought.