I wish I were a snow bird.
Privileged with the kind of nest egg
that buys two way tickets
to warmer states on a whim.

Sometimes hibernation
is more than all the body craves
when the frostbitten sun sets so soon
the ancients, now they knew
when to pack it in
resting for an extended stay
beside the comfort of a fireplace
feeding a Yule through the darkest night.

Hibernation is to survive the duration
of intolerable impositions
a dwindling of resources,
a strain on regulation,
as gracefully as one can transition;
how long should the fishing carry on when the river ice thickens?

Hibernation is no vacation,
there is no satisfaction in hunkering down,
heart rate laying low to appease the wolves
seeking their own sort of survival through the snow, you can’t blame them;
unbiased the bone chill of a looming winter night.

The Common Poorwill crawls under the burden of rocks twice its size to hide
ostracized by more migratory abled
virtue signaling a strawman for their pilot,
that odd one, as the only nightjar to torpor
a far cry from a snow bird, a bump in their road
erratically flutters along the ground
seeking somewhere shallow and safe
and warm.

Sometimes, hibernation is more
than all the heart can bear, a blow
from the environment, a kicked rock,
an existential beating can do that
to such small creatures
with nowhere else to fly.