Bill's Brother Died,

and hawks hung up there like dust in a sky so clear
that if they were dust you would fear them
and the air so cold it had to tear tears from your eyes
and the wind just high
enough to keep keening hawks up there.

What a day to die!  What a day for that kind of fulfillment!

The news displayed like cordials or tea on a tray.
Frightened friends take sips,
put the glass down,
shake hands, walk away from
as they might from lips
or a trap that was set with their knowledge.

Now wind is sharp and the moon so bright it makes shadows
Anything that moves draws immediate attention to itself.
The great white owl
come down from the north for our mice
will be fat and filled.

The shadows add frost to excitement.

Walking home, I shiver; wind like a hand at my back.
It's a night for books,
a fire in the fireplace and ash.
Everywhere I look,
I imagine I can see snowy owls,
hear my footsteps creak every step
like the shriek of talon-speared voles
or moles wide awake in tunnels.

When the white owl comes,
I want to be filled with owl knowledge,
know that spring and sun
come at last,
if late, to the tundra,

know that new grass springs
out of snowmelt with flowers in between
for the short time when
the breeding of geese is accomplished;

know the sun, orange-red,
slides around the horizon on its sled
and in fertile dens
the cub and the kit are well fed

as the snow-bird turns
brown
as do rabbits and eggs,
even fox's prey,
better to be hidden on the ground;

in this way compete
and complete the sure round of living
while the long grass sways
and rustles with the giving and the taking,

as the wild cranes dance,
lift up and bow down in slow motion;

as the wild cranes dance.