In “Winter Nocturne,” Hans Ostrom imagines a harsh, ancient landscape—granite, boulders, manzanita, a coyote “lean and sharp as death”—and contrasts it with the small comfort of being indoors. The speaker lies in bed and pictures the ridge in darkness, ponderosa pines creaking like beams of sunken ships, snow covering slate. That thought makes the warmth of blankets feel like enough: “It can be that simple.” A quiet, cold, slightly eerie mood emerges. There is real danger outside—the choice “whether to freeze or not”—but also a kind of peace in accepting plain needs. The bear sleeps, the coyote cries like a victim, and the speaker stays warm, grateful for a simple boundary between the wild night and sleep.
Winter Nocturne — Summary
This is still unbroken country: granite that buckled a million eons ago, diorite boulders, manzanita—and coyote, as lean and sharp as death itself.
I think of the ridge in darkness where ponderosa pines creak like beams of sunken ships. If you think about a slab of slate beneath the snow, you are glad to be in bed, three blankets toward sleep. It can be that simple.
A winter night in the hills allows the luxury of plain choices, whether to freeze or not. Out there the bear’s brain sleeps. A coyote cries like a victim.