The wind mutters night madness
A sound like blowing gently on
The most delicate champagne flute,
Brushing the ear of a lover
With entreaties to rendevous
Far from crowds and eyes of pry.
It is August, the bears begin
To fatten on fruit and acorns
When solitaries come to rut
Along dense river corridors
Where people seldom dare to pass,
A fecund month for bears and moose
Cows caught in estrus, bellowing
Twenty four-seven for service,
Reminding me of soldier bars
At last call (and first) whisky-pulls
Superfluous in the wake of
Desperation and primal urge.
We are in a poachers’ month when
Deer shine red, their meat still sweet,
Unspoiled by cedar browse and
Stresses of winter survival,
I feel life up here taking deep
Breaths before winter’s onslaught,
August when dreams retain smooth skins
Untrammeled by reality.