The Keen of Winter Swans, voles and grey foxes.

The arch lesson in survival this post presupposes is entirely a metaphysical one, if such one exists. Like all we ascribe to the scurrying, mate-guarding and brooding of swans, voles and grey foxes how so far does the human's tremendous physical and emotional need ache to be satisfied at almost any cost? What I am left with is this active sense, under difficult thriving conditions, an overwintering... I am spent this evening by Louise Erdrich's poem about finality, forecasts, and of course, "the weird sisters" ...

"Three Sisters" by Louise Erdrich

Arlene wore the eyes of an old man around her neck.
Scratched porcelain, washed down
with the hot lye of his breath.

Dalona rode love like a ship in light wind.
The sails of her body unfurled at a touch.
No one could deny her safe passage, safe harbor.

Thedda, the youngest, was shut like a bell.
The white thorns of silence prickled in each bush
where she walked, and the grass stopped growing where she stood.

One year the three sisters came out of their rooms,
swaying like the roses that papered their walls.
They walked, full grown, into the heart of the town.

Young men broke their eyes against their eyes of stone,
and singed their long tongues
on the stunned flames of their mouths.

It was in late August, in the long year of drought.
The pool halls were winnowed and three men drew lots
to marry the sisters, all six in a great house.

On the night of the wedding the wind rose on a glass stem.
The clouds lowered in live heat.
We tethered our dogs.

Some swore they saw a hoop of lighting dance down in their yard.
Toward dawn, we felt the weight of lead sinkers in our bones,
walked out, and caught the first, fast drops on our tongues.