Moose, Meet

 

 

Autumn morning, rising sun
burnishing barrens gold
Father and son wait patiently
For glimpse of brown through brush
Moose steps into field of sight
Son shoulders .308 with steady aim
He finds his mark

Bull turns its massive antlered head
With regal grace and pride of place
And for a moment gazes lock
Soft brown eyes look into blue
Fingers tremble slightly
On trigger, squeezing tightly

Father exhales softly “now, son”
The shot is clean, right through the brain
Majestic animal collapses, down
On legs surprisingly spindly
Dead before it hits the ground

The meat is quartered, packed and hauled
Nothing left but blood stained leaves
This animal did not die in vain
No wastage here, no trophy kill

And though he loves his mother’s stew
The moose meat braised to tender turn
The boy, he will not hunt again

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One thought on “Moose, Meet

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  1. Reblogged this on Food 4Thought and commented:

    An exceptionally busy day means a repeat–this one, the poem that’s gotten more responses than anything else I’ve written on this blog with the exception of the recipe for Jaegermeister sorbet.

    Like

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