Matanuska

Three hundred seconds away, a grizzly
claws at the brains of a Coho. This is less
messy than expected: this ursine,

nitpicky, chooses the prized fatty
offal before bolting up to the nonsound
of the ice cracking away from itself —

the air eeling, squirming for melody,
a crispness that blankets the Alaskan
white, some spell that cools the trees in their sway.

You

can’t hear it,
but you feel it,

gripped tight and sprung quick as three
swings of the connibear trap trapping,
lunging, strangling a furry, warmblooded

abdomen.

The highway is closed for the season.

Three amanita will poison a hiker
who forgets that parasoled mushrooms
with gills are always never edible.

Out on the water, three frozen sheets,
dashes of caesuraed February
dusks, mistake you for a bluelipped
cadaver,

microflora hush on the sail of your skiff.