Winter Nocturne Poem by Hans Ostrom

This is still unbroken country: granite
that buckled a million years ago,
diorite boulders, manzanita—and coyote,
as lean and sharp as death itself.

I think of the ridge in darkness where
ponderosa pines creak like beams
of sunken ships. If you think about
a slab of slate beneath the snow,

you are glad to be in bed,
three blankets toward sleep.
It can be that simple.
A winter night in the hills allows

the luxury of plain choices,
whether to freeze or not.
Out there the bear’s brain sleeps.
A coyote cries like a victim.


Hans Ostrom