Prehistoric Winter

The cold would just as soon you didn't make it home Till spring, when frozen bodies thaw, Gaunt coyotes bless their stars and drag you off. The only thing that's stirring in the crystal strath Is deep beneath Waiting for: not yet, not yet, not yet... Life is wily. Winter can go to hell, says life, let's take a nap. Next year's wildflowers: numb bullets. Sleek fat rodents curl in thatch-lined burrows Peaceful piles of neighbors Sleep like their young, too deep for dreaming. Well, lesser beings May stoop to hibernation. Noble *****sapiens shun the easy path Push on with shelter, firewood, the hunt Push on till half demented, two-thirds blind. The after-solstice strengthening cold, Not without some irony Would just as soon be entertained. The ageless cold abides Content to watch you struggle Till, your lips too blue to shape a single curse You throw your hat down, seek your simple hearth, Try again tomorrow. Never mind the swiftness of the weather Abrupt and deafening storms that shred your lungs with ice... Never mind, but then... When winter's expectant quiet looms a bit too long It settles in your bones... Never mind the quiet. Bring to mind instead, the gentle promise of spring, when grasses – No. Not yet. A cold, unearthly howling splits the silence keen as shards... Seems to split your very skull and makes you Crave the silence back with all you are. Nothing with a throat, no lung Could make that sound. ...weather-sculpted ice in deep ravines ...the wind, just so Blows anthems from beyond to stump your earthly ear But you know nothing. It's a sound that overwhelms, you've guessed as much. And if it leaves you flat too long The cold would just as soon supply your grave As wait eleven winters more And watch another elder making Breakfast for a bear.