The Majesty of the Moose

At first I thought it was a horse. I was traveling along the Massachusetts Turnpike, a road I’ve taken hundreds of times, and on the opposite side was a dark mass rising out of the grass. As I got closer, the antlers separated themselves from the background of trees, and I realized I was looking at a moose.

What struck me most was the size of the creature. It was gigantic. Even from afar its immensity was impressive. The rounded massiveness of the antlers, the dark majesty of its fur, and somehow, even as my car whizzed by, the soulful portals of its eyes. It moved slowly. When you’re that big, there is no need to rush. Yet far from plodding or cumbersome, its gait was more graceful than clumsy, and suddenly, somewhere between Boston and Albany, that glimpse of grace brought its own sense of peace.

Majestic. Magnificent. Miraculous.

A moose in Massachusetts.

(I always thought it would be in Maine.)

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