The calendar says the eighth of March.
The porcupine says, good night.
What dreams does he dream, this porcupine
asleep in the woodshed of my writing house
on this rainy morning in early March?
Does he dream of the first green shoots
of spring he dined on only last week
before cold descended again like the fist
of Odin, freezing streams and ponds
in a single night, and reclaiming seasonal
sovereignty, until this rain broke through
like a Viking horde?