The moose doesn’t mind the winter.
He perceives the frost and snowy boughs
without comment, without bitterness,
though snow encrusts his antlers.
A tremor shakes his flanks but he endures.
The world may be shagged with ice
but its glitters please the eye.
Yet the sun is an impostor
shining coldly in a cold sky.
The moose scuffs a pile of blue snow,
nibbles the branch of a pine tree.
His sound is the sound of the forest,
the sigh of the wind, a twig-snap,
an ice sheet crashing like a sidelight.
But the moose doesn’t flinch,
doesn’t see it as a rebuff to the day.
No, it will snow again, and he
will gather himself as the wolves
stream down from the snow-capped hills.
1 November 2012