The Awakening

Awakening everyone

but the dead-of-night’s companions—

those thick trunks of oak

and maple, of cherry and fir,

barely visible in the moonless gloom,

         who sleep the sleep of the long-living;

         for whom a year is a day

         and a day is a minute—



They do not stir

as the coyote

sings to defend its kill;

as the owl

rasps its vicious victory over the vole;

as the vixen

screams her battle with scarcity;



But we are roused— abruptly—

our primal hairs raised,

our ancient muscles perking our ears

like the dog who listens intently

then howls back,

transformed in a moment

to a wolf;



We awaken in thrall to our basest instincts—

to fight back with knuckle or rock,

or flee on limbs meant to run

great grassy distances

beyond the reach of Death.

-Patricia Thrushart