The road is white with snow and flakes dance before the headlights.
The dark pines lean over, listening for the passing cars,
Canopy the way.
I am almost home, the familiar river is a black ribbon
To my left, beyond the trees.
I am alone on the road.
The headlights race ahead just so far and no further,
Define the limit of my vision,
But I know this road, I know its curves and bends.
The darkness beside me moves into the road
And the moose steps into the headlights' path.
He turns his great antlered head to look at me.
The cow steps out of the trees beside the car.
I stop.
I can see the streaks of gray and brown and black in her fur,
Can see the muscles shifting as she paws the road.
She is less than a foot from my window:
The glass now seems ridiculously thin.
I can hear her breath.
He turns toward me, unafraid, imperious,
Questioning why I am so close to his mate.
She moves beside the car and I wonder,
If I got out now and stood beside him,
I could not see over his shoulders, shaggy and chunked with snow.
What am I thinking? Get out of the car?
In most accidents involving moose and cars, the moose wins;
Legs clipped from under them; rolls over the roof,
Crushing the driver,
then gets up and walks away.
Happens all the time.
Get out of the car? What am I thinking?
Stand in the headlights, his breath a moist fog between us,
and try to determine intentions expressed in those dark eyes?
My hands drop from the steering wheel.
He turns finally and moves down the road. She follows.
I slowly inch the car forward behind them.
The trees break into a pasture and they move, as one,
up the hill, through the night and are gone.
I breathe again and pick up speed toward home,
Pass houses warm with light.
What was I thinking?
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