The woolly bears go cross the road,
their backs of orange and black a sign
of winter’s length and strength to come.
They inch across the lanes in fur
fit for a monarch, fox, or star,
as crows descend and yellow leaves
fly out against the twilight breeze.
However accurate the widths
of colors on their prophet backs,
or knowledge of their fate as moths,
they seem intent on crossing this
hard Styx or Jordan to the ditch,
oblivious to the tires’ high pitch.