Gary Fincke
When the polar bears came inland, the sea ice thinned, too dangerous for their thick, white weight; we closed our schools and locked our children inside to keep them from harm. All morning, the bears wandered our streets, as confused as our children.
By evening, our families agreed that something had to be sacrificed. Regardless, the town's dumpsters were defenseless. In the morning, when they were depleted, we waited for the bears to leave.
But now, they snuffle under our windows, nuzzling the soil where the voles, out of reach, are thriving. Like us, they sense that winter no longer lives here. Half-heartedly, they thump against our doors as if embarrassed to be thought begging like refugees seeking aid or mercy.
Our children churn in our chilly rooms, stir our houses until the brittle walls soften.
Each morning we wait for winter to recover. The bears' breath clouds our streets. Their paws splash mud across their heavy thighs. An undertone of blame surrounds our houses.
We are the remote. Nothing is north of here but the shameless, undressed sea.
Our sons and daughters are seals now. Everyone is housebound. We spend these mild, growl-filled days trying not to teach them terror.
Their hunger is greater than ours. We cannot outlast them.
Listen, the ancient prophecy, all along, has deceived us. The end is being preceded by a succession of terrible, modest winters, last year's, the year before, and now this one, as if the translators were incorrect, as if summer will vanish into this endless, twilit season conceived by gods we have never understood. Rumors have invaded. The promised wars that will verify the gods are about to begin.