Ptarmigan

I see these birds year-round and delight in how their plumage changes with the seasons. Their call is laughter in the wind.

Ptarmigan

Rock, Willow, White
Like rock, paper, scissors
I wonder which one of you is bursting from
your cozy hovel beneath the snow.
My dog’s curious nose rousted you. 
You laugh as you fly,
“get back get back get back.”

Feathers between your toes this time 
of year, you will shed them in spring just as 
you will shed your snow-white mantle for the 
color of earth. 
How did you come to adapt 
so readily to the reality of your existence? 
Cold. Scarcity. Wolves. 

Clucking at chicks in summer, congregating
in chatty flocks in winter, 
you seem to harbor no anguish 
of doubt or regret, no grief 
for what surely is to come.
Changing seasons cause no 
more concern than the long 
slow rising or setting of the sun. 
This moment is enough.
Huddle in warmth, feast on birch catkins,
laugh at intrusions like
a black wet nose.