What I do is me: for that I came.
—Gerard Manley Hopkins
A moose came to bathe
one rare hot first of June, wading in
belly deep, his winter coat half-shed,
his haunches patchy.
He scattered the ducks, and the heron
lifted off, each movement
sharp as scissors.
The moose seemed lost
in thought: it’s summer
and I’m alone. Why?
He shook himself to dislodge
the wretched blackflies; but no,
they came right back. They required
blood, while he, big as he was,
lived on water lilies.
His hooves roiled the muddy bottom.
Whatever he touched, he broke.
After he splashed out
the pond required hours
to restore its serenity,
its post-moose-ness. A moose
barges into the blue-green world
as though he didn’t belong
where he clearly does, as though
his whole life was one long riddle
and the answer was
backwards and upside down
in pieces on the water.