When a milk-white moon spins silver, Drifting a net across the lake, Out of the glistening translucence, They say, the moose of the island Emerges, his flanks dripping fire, For the private solemnities Of his progress down the bush road EDging the cavernous shadows Of the night's disordered terrors. With his stately antlers flung high, He breathes out a magnificence That crowns the moment with power. I know, for I've seen the footsteps Of his hooves, elegant as glass, Writ in new snow like majesty.

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