I sleep the sleep of winter hours, the owl-
soft flight come swooping down from sovereign dark
when grass bends windward where a small vole prowls;
alight as if one bright—one fallen star…
—Awake from slumbering like an April bear
who licks the afterbirth and dewy pelt
of newborn cubs, then carries them off elsewhere
to swipe the first ripe blackberries in snowmelt.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 4.
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