We pulled snowshoes from the back and crossed the five-lane
by the sports bar between two bad curves,
headed to the bog. It was midday,
sky low, traffic a light drone. We cinched
straps, stomped teeth into the trailhead,
took snapshots of ourselves and set off
for the muffle of woods and the snow we hoped
now would carry us, and mostly didn’t, but still
seemed somehow better as we followed
tracks, reconstructed pounce and dodge, waiting
for the place to raise voice. And when it didn’t
we turned toward home, stopped listening, and I
started mugging for you, showing off, and I thought
as I ran along the trail, snow slapping up the backs
of my thighs,
maybe we have found it, the thing
where neither is better or cares or clocks the length.
The thing that makes us beautiful.
And when I turned
to shout back, what escaped was
Moose. Dewlap swinging, shoulder hump
rocking in gait, heading out of the trees
the way I’d come, toward you.
Somewhere, there’s a tally sheet that reckons up
how often we say we’re happy and mean it,
and we, in the messy and reasonable panic
of our lives, just lost our chance to earn a point.
The moose ran out from the trees and I ran back
to you and we stared and backed away together,
frightened by the huge answer of its body.