FOUR MOOSE IN WABOS

Saturday night just past, full moon it was, two in the morning, returning to Wabos after a night of revelry in the Soo. The music still in our ears, in fast retreat from the 60s, dylanesque nuance, bending harmonicas, throwing down the cards—mixing up the medicines.

The moon shadows through the pointed trees, conversation at last slowing us down in the final snow-packed mile or so. Reflecting on the clustered barflies, curious interludes and lilting musical crescendos we had witnessed.

The vw would climb a last hill before settling into our valley—then suddenly a skidding, braking, sliding, and rude interruption of four moose, stationary on the otherwise lonely road. Caught unaware, in mid-conversation, as we were—each reacting to the others displacement. Just missing the cow moose to our right, then slide-braking in front of two bulls, their antlers as wide as das auto, their 8 legs towering over us. The four of them dramatically assembled, then individually exited stage-road left. Only the calf lingered, looking back in half-expectation of us explaining our intent. We visually returned this half-request through an open window, as this last remaining moose slipped out of the moonlight and into the bush.

So what of those lost conversations? Of music just snorted or ungulates in deep meditation? As a flood-lit moon washed over the participants, browsing a sweetness in road salt, moose elders began speculating on the heavy snows yet to come, the moose-yards yet to be discovered, or the joys of annual rut. Either way we read it, the “what if” possibilities prepared us all, slowing time for the encounter, thus preventing 6 mammals & one vw from obliteration.

Mysticism is loose in Wabos, as is the lucky moment that lets us live so see it again.

artwork: Leslie Cochran