Groundhog Day

It’s not his own shadow he looks for but the shadows of hawks. He has stirred from hibernation not to forecast but to inspect others’ burrows—to scout for mates. His lust is still containable, a faint mutter like an underground stream or a sleepwalker’s obstreperous small intestine. He serves it more in faith than in urgency, a reluctant prophet answering a call, for he’s exposed to the sky in a way he isn’t used to: there’s no grass, no cover, the meadow has a new, white surface & the sun too is strange—it gives no heat. He freezes, wary as it emerges from its burrow behind a snowcloud.