In the green light of the aurora
a bear emerges from the woods
to ransack bird feeders for seed
and rummage the garden for grubs.

No cubs so must be a male.
He’s shaggy as hickory bark.
Should I frighten him away?
The aurora pours from the north

with the force of the solar wind
sculpting the overwrought ions.
The green bleeds into everything,
tinting our faces and hands,

draping eerie shadows everywhere.
The bear with his weak eyesight
ignores the solar expression.
Don’t you wish we could live

so simply? The corrugated sky
looks seasick, and despite the lack
of terrestrial wind the pine-tops
wave surly boughs in applause.