ELK
By Jay G. Merriam
Jan. 19, 2025
Crisp, clear, dry, blue air
washes over the landscape.
Minus 6 at 6.
Short of O2, but it’ll do.
A band of thirty-two elk
trip slowly
across frozen fields
retreating from an overnight hay binge
at the neighbors barn.
They look back furtively, hoping
she won’t notice the giant hole
in the bales.
Like teens sneaking in
long after curfew
head down, shoes in hand, looking for cover.
Across the snowy path, they walk away.
Purposeful, measured, alert
they stride through the snow towards the smooth wire fence
separating them from the road.
Flat-footed, they top it
with a gazelle’s grace.
Facing the berm, fully twelve feet up
they scramble to the pavement,
having already declared it “clear” to their followers
with that sharp, melodious chirp
that tells all, by its subtle tonal changes.
I watch as they drift
across the road
into the sage-covered hill
that wraps their cloven feet.
Paths, visible only to them
guide them up the slope.
They fade into the dark
camouflaged hill.
They are gone.