Peter Neil Carroll		Sleeping with Bears Black bear splinters the front door, sweat freezes on my neck— a wild awakening— then I remember The Three Bears, poor Papa, finding his house invaded. Heart pounding, I get a grip on the darkness, vow to fix the latch some day. For now, I’m stuck. I start to count sheep, tossing, lose track, finally surrender the covers. I go out to call on old Papa Bear, have a heart-to-heart chat about the nightmare we share. I find him restless under the stars. He’s counting his children; a glint from Ursus Minor lights him up. Half the year bored in caves, he stares at the fireworks of night: shooting stars, artillery, mortar. Count your children, advises Papa Bear, listening, as a faraway father stumbles on broken glass to reach his kids. The man paws through sudden rubble. Papa Bear cannot quench his own excitement. War, he says. Better their children. Yes I count my children lucky, feed them porridge, sleep them safely under quilts, shingles, stars & stripes. But it’s harder than counting sheep: Someone’s broken in again, eaten up all the beds.