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	<title>Zócalo Public SquareUrsa Major &#8211; Zócalo Public Square</title>
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	<description>Ideas Journalism With a Head and a Heart</description>
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		<title>Ursa Major</title>
		<link>https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org/2015/03/06/ursa-major/chronicles/poetry/</link>
		<comments>https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org/2015/03/06/ursa-major/chronicles/poetry/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 06 Mar 2015 08:01:57 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>by Laura Orem</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[snow]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[space]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org/?p=58813</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[<p>Old she-bear, pent<br /> in her rocky den,<br /> gnaws a footpad<br /> dry as dust, solitary rakes in sticks<br /> and scratches the scar<br /> that marks a hunter’s<br /> mis-aimed lead. Shaking the ice<br /> off her frozen fur, she licks<br /> the snow and huffs<br /> out clouds of steam. She glimpses the night<br /> through a gap<br /> in the rock, sees<br /> her starry sister whirl across the sky.<br /> They watch each other<br /> all the frigid season, nodding<br /> across the distance. The cubless months are long<br /> but she’ll wait out<br /> dark days and the cold<br /> morning rime. Come spring,<br /> she’ll rise like heat<br /> and blink into<br /> the unfamiliar sun. Come spring,<br /> she’ll sniff the air, nose<br /> out what’s been lost<br /> by winter.</p>
<p>The post <a rel="nofollow" href="https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org/2015/03/06/ursa-major/chronicles/poetry/">Ursa Major</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org">Zócalo Public Square</a>.</p>
]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Old she-bear, pent<br />
in her rocky den,<br />
gnaws a footpad<br />
dry as dust,</p>
<p>solitary rakes in sticks<br />
and scratches the scar<br />
that marks a hunter’s<br />
mis-aimed lead.</p>
<p>Shaking the ice<br />
off her frozen fur, she licks<br />
the snow and huffs<br />
out clouds of steam.</p>
<p>She glimpses the night<br />
through a gap<br />
in the rock, sees<br />
her starry sister</p>
<p>whirl across the sky.<br />
They watch each other<br />
all the frigid season, nodding<br />
across the distance.</p>
<p>The cubless months are long<br />
but she’ll wait out<br />
dark days and the cold<br />
morning rime.</p>
<p>Come spring,<br />
she’ll rise like heat<br />
and blink into<br />
the unfamiliar sun.</p>
<p>Come spring,<br />
she’ll sniff the air, nose<br />
out what’s been lost<br />
by winter.</p>
<p>The post <a rel="nofollow" href="https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org/2015/03/06/ursa-major/chronicles/poetry/">Ursa Major</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org">Zócalo Public Square</a>.</p>
]]></content:encoded>
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		<slash:comments>2</slash:comments>
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