Arctic Movement

ARCTIC MOVEMENT

White on white—

polar bear

in a blizzard

the shape of forgetting.

Nothing to hold,

no edge to press against.

Only wind,

and a blank page

that refuses to speak.

This is north of north,

beyond the map

of warm-blooded sense.

Even night

refuses to darken—

just a smear of blue

behind the eyes.

The bear stirs—

not from sleep,

but from the ache

that never leaves.

Belly gone to echo,

skin crusted with salt ice,

nostrils wide,

dragging the air

like a net

for anything that moves.

He listens.

Not for music—

not anymore—

but for a crack,

a slip,

a tremble

in the under-ice sky

where salmon

become

the only truth

left.

He waits.

Two weeks,

maybe three—

or none.

Still, he moves.

Not with certainty

but with hunger.

Rises to all fours,

then two—

as if reaching

for something

not quite there.

The white

begins to melt.

Not fast.

But enough

SCOTT SIMPSON

to feel it

in the pads

of his feet.

And when

he finally walks

out over the dark,

it is not spring

he finds,

but a kind of thaw—

enough to move.

Enough to live

again.

A HUSH BETWEEN SEASONS