The Year the Bears Forgot to Sleep

The year the bears forgot to sleep
the insomniacs arrived
after dark on the deck
at the feeder
meant for creatures of flight
with feathers,
not fur—

for aviators
who sang to me
in the sunlight of morning,
not huffing like prowlers
or old men in heavy boots—

not this old sow
licking black seeds
from the wood outside the window,
pawing at the compost pile
hoping for a morsel
of moldy cheese.

But they came,
night after night,
zombies in the balmy Vermont moonlight
and air

wandering dangerously
near the house
on Sunset Lake Road
just around the corner
from the all-night glow
of the neon
Chelsea Royal Diner sign

drawn, like all poets
and things that go bump
in the night,
to Rumi
and Kenyon
and the lullaby
of Goodnight Moon.