WITCHING HOUR

Not midnight, but twilight.
There's a black dog in the windy woods,
and other things: a clamor
of dogs across the river,
a barred owl calling hunger
and question from the swamp.
A whickering of sparrows settling
to quiet, and me, and a new
quarter moon in a spill of cloud.

Power is on the wind, and faith:
the owls are huddling chicks
through the darkness and ice
by the grace of blood.
Skunk cabbages shoulder up
through the trickling spring:
their striped frog-heads crack
through snow, waiting for the one
fly to hatch which pollinates skunk cabbage.
They are sure it will come, sure
enough to trust everything
to the cold still coming.

Magic. More power than any witch
in Hawthorne could muster.
Round-based as a wine bowl, the quarter
moon tips light into the glowing cloud.
Springwater begins to gleam.
I kneel and swallow, and swallow
again; for now, there is still
more power, more water, and more.