Glendalien Prophecy

Catapulted from a great distance, the stuffed yellow bear flails his short limbs over the dense forest canopy. He lands through a clearing in the trees and continues to skid through the sediment, unsettling the dirt and detritus, leaving a trail with his stubby yellow feet. He stops just before the edge, where I am standing. "I'm at the edge of a glen," he says. "This must be Glendale 1907," I reply. We stare down at the river. Reflections of a large patchwork of farmland flow by, slipping away forever.