The moose hunt

Snow deadens hunters’ footfalls: shush, shush, shush. 

Daughter turns and gestures: down. Mama and son sink, grateful, into cushioning snow, 

extend elbows, legs among frosted willows, hold breath. Ahead, Daddy edges 

closer. Four moose browse golden sedge in November meadow. 

Late-day sun throws cloud-shrouded mountains into deep shadow, 

brings lea into luminous relief. Spring creek meanders eternal, 

blue ribbon on white silk. Paddling coots thread upstream, heads aloft, 

curious. Hunters tremble, excitement and fear; birds startle, 

u-turn tailfeathers wag warning.

Four moose still. 

Three bulls — big, bigger, biggest — tilt ears toward interlopers, 

exchange gentle bleats and moos. Cow mama telegraphs her family: wait, see. 

Hunter kneels, stabilizes rifle. Watches. Tucked family peeks, wonders —   

Will he shoot now? — steels for violent crack. Instead comes 

bare woof peaceful, dulled by snowdrifts. Suspension: 

                  black moose, indigo peaks, golden grass, grace.

Alces alces steps, steps, 

tries to run stumbles crashes, 800 pounds of life, dying. 

Moose family gathers, watches hunting family approach 

the fallen one. Human ones raise their arms in gratitude.

Thank you, moose people. Kneel next to the body. Thank you.