Here, we laugh at silly ritual
by which we say, a rodent
tells the weather
ahead, either long weeks more
of snow, cold, dark, or softly
spring come early, budding.
Meanwhile, in a mountain town
gathered from the world, the strong
the swift, the bright and agile
take their place, each in their colours
draped in the most benign face
of each country’s pride, they sport
for us, and wear the glory lightly.
We pretend, and by these proxy wars
give tongue to virtue of combat
one on one, and team by team
alight with common purpose.
We are soft animals, all of us
in our dens or painted towers
asleep in dormitories, training
for the task of winning light, or
sleeping close, beneath the frost
in tune with the Great
Mother’s breath, and rising
to look out, in hopes of green.
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