What does the wind hunt in the night?
Hurling sticks at my window,
Tearing too tall pines from sodden ground,
Sweeping lost souls into brown water,
Scouring bare limbs, the
Fat buds all armored in red.
At dawn, a wasted moon fades,
Commonplace Canadas cry,
But among them are snow geese
Plying black-tipped wings,
Singing sagas of their lost homeland,
Of poles and stars that have wandered,
Of solar storms,
Crashing like waves upon Mother Earth.
Bird-gleaned now this raw barren;
Wind dances frantic, alone.
Wild huntress, here searching, there seeking,
Warm blood and green leaves that burgeon
Beneath February's dark dolmen.