Flightless birds
in formal wear,
swim with the seals and
rest on the frozen crust.
The walrus crashes
the party,
an artic hound,
they dare not trust.
And you are lord
of an icebound world
of shattered tundra,
and wind-carved canyons,
where slow days pass
and slower nights,
where stars are close,
dancing their way through
curtains of light.
White as the snow,
fierce as the cold,
remorseless as death,
hunting all others,
with iron jaws,
great clawed paws--
a hurtling mass
of mangling hunger.
You invite yourself to dinner.
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In Spirit,
Bear
Best regards,
Leland