Artair's Bears

There they are in full panoply of war,
all of them sons-of-bitches,
dog-men and dog-warriors,
brothers one and all.
Their claws gleam in the noon-bright sun
and their fangs gnash and grind
and their pelts are snow-blown
and wind-wrapped about themselves
for they are but beasts,
alone in the wilderness.

Let them all come, those whoresons
and vagabonds, who like their
namesake bear up the burden of the world.
They are Atlas-ed in their shame
and bow snout down to the earth
to sniffle and grumble at their fate.

Bears, how I adore thee
and wish to be armored in the certitude
of fruitless victory
that you bear so nobly.