Winter On The Wing
By g.l. bass (the ghostbear still lives)
1998/ed.2005
For Bryon

 

A full fall moon rises,
Pale circles of coming winter
Wrinkle round it in slivers
Of soft, dim glow.
Whispers of long shadows
Cross freshly harvested
Corn rows.

Hidden in the shadows,
Along the edge of the woods,
The bear watches
Deer graze among left-over stalks.
Their breath plumes lift in
Small round clouds against
Pale moonlight
Then disappear.

The bear feels the frost
Gathering close to the forest floor.
He hears a distant, subtle call.
The Great Horned Owl
Forewarns him,
It is near the end of fall
And this moon brings
Winter on the wing.

Down the winding gravel road,
Where the fence line breaks
Toward the gray, weather-worn barn,
Two farmhands gather themselves
Against a faded yellow tractor.
In this silent, dark, moonstruck moment,
The deer lift their nostrils to the wind,
They listen to the Owl’s deep hollow call,
They stir at the scent of the bear.
The bear turns down wind
Along the fence line,
He heeds them not.
He has more urgent matters to tend to.


The bear lifts his head.
He follows,
Across the moon’s round October face,
A long chevron of Canadians
Sail in their journey
From marsh to field.
Their distant honking
Fills the night
Cracking the crisp, cold air.
Their voices are clear,
Their song is not dismissed
By the farmhands,
The deer,
Nor the bear.
Winter is on the wing.

Turning their backs to the moon,
The farmhands empty
Their hot, steaming thermos,
In long quick strokes
Out onto the cold ground
As they climb slowly
Up the long steady slope
Past the gray barn,
Back towards the house,
They are unaware
The bear passes
Behind them,
Secretly,
Above and beyond the ridge,
He too turns his heart
Towards home.

The bear is certain,
As he lifts his nose
Against the faint scent
Of wind drift smoke,
Aged and sawed oak,
Burning in the woodstove,
Climbing out of the
House’s chimney,
Then rising slowly
Towards the moon,
No matter what else
This October brings,
He is certain,
Winter is on the wing.