Moose hair

Flying Moose

As I left the lake, climbing the trails

I hadn’t seen a moose - no telling tales.

I’d climb a few feet, look back to see

What was that?  Could it be?

Just a moose-bush or antelope tree.

On I went, looking back more than front

What was that?  A moosey grunt?

I swung around, only to see

A dirty brown rug, whooshing by me.

His antlers cradled high, they dwarfed the east.

If I’d had a gun, what a feast!

Dust and grime then spattered my cheek

I think I sprung a little leak.

Alas he stopped, just up the hill.

The sun setting, we both stood still.

A snort from him and a sniffle from me,

The sun said good-bye… so did we.

Then I woke with such a sneeze!

My eyes now open, asleep I’d been.

There was no moose.

‘Twas only a dream.