🪑 Rocking Chair Tales: The Day Cinder Came Through
I was sipping my coffee, watching a squirrel try to pry open a sunflower seed with more determination than skill, when the birds went silent. Every one of them. Just like that.
And then I saw him.
Out from the hedgerow he came—slow, deliberate, dark as cinders. A black bear. Not hurrying, not sneaking—just moving with a purpose, as if the ground belonged to him and always had.
He paused by the bird feeder, rose up on two legs, and sniffed inside. Curious, but not hopeful. You could tell he was on a mission—a quiet, searching mission for food. But the feeder was empty, and after one deep breath, he dropped back down and moved on.
Gone as quickly as he came.
It was the first bear this porch had ever seen in all its years of rocking and watching. Never once had we looked out past the railing and spotted such a creature moving through the grass. And then—there he was. And then—he wasn’t.
We call him Cinder now.
Because he came like the last coal in a fire—soft, dark, and still glowing from somewhere deep inside. A visitor from the forest’s ancient heart. He didn’t come to frighten, just to pass through.
Even after he’d vanished into the trees, the air felt changed. As if the yard remembered his weight. The wind slowed. The grass leaned a little longer in the direction he’d gone.
You never know what—or who—will pass through your life. Some things don’t stay long enough to make sense. They just arrive, breathe you in, and continue their journey. Not everything is meant to linger.
I don’t think the squirrel’s quite forgiven me. He gave me a look this morning that said I was responsible for the bear—and for the empty feeder.
But maybe that’s part of the magic of this porch. It teaches you to watch gently, to listen closely, and to let wonder come and go as it pleases.
Because the wild doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes it just pauses, stands tall, and breathes you in.
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