Dusk

Dusk.

Just enough light to hide things in the shadows,

no clear lines nor shapes visible in the darkness

and its variations of gray and black.

Still, we saw something there, thought we did,

pretty sure, there beside the road, looming, a spectral form

materializing as a moose standing in the dusky light.

He calmly stepped onto the road, to cross, pausing, though,

unconcerned, unafraid, as we slowed to a stop, cautious;

for we’ve heard the tales or seen, experienced perhaps,

moose and motorcar meeting, a mangle of man and metal.

Yet, it is for him we feared, not ourselves.

Other cars might not see him, know him

like we who live here do, skittish and unmoving,

these cars demanding their right of way, not slowing,

nor stopping, as we have paused ourselves to watch

and stare, awestruck, still, always.

So we fear for him, unconcerned, his life 

and beauty lost on a dark road at dusk, blameless

as we and suffering blame merely for crossing here,

nothing more, a specter looming unafraid, dark and beautiful.

And our hearts rose as he turned,

saw no danger in us, and entered the woods

to disappear into the shadows, gray and black,

variations of darkness at evening’s dusk.