Bears Waking Poem by Hans Ostrom

All over one hemisphere,
bears stir in hot stench
of imperial naps. They
don’t know latitude
or axis, orbit or equinox.
Bears feel knowledge in blood
and brain, gland and tongue and paw.
They wake to thirst
that nearly blinds them.
After a whole winter, hunger
tears into their guts
like a coyote. Their noses
lead them out into sharp breezes
or warm rain, devour air
for news of food. Waking
bears don’t think about
next winter or this summer,
or tomorrow, whatever that
is. They lope hugely into hollows
of odor, groves of sound,
putting their bodies on rocks
and brush, letting the big
tongue loll and flap, slobbering
on everything, lifting the nose
up, and up. Sunlight is,
and is just fine with waking
unabashed bears.