Safe Harbor.

The last real wild drive I did (Christmas ‘22, Salt Lake to Philly, alone,
straight through) I had a near-miss with two moose.

I’d stopped on the Medicine Bow, outside Laramie, near the rocks they call Vedauwoo.
It was past dark, cold, a place I’d never seen in daylight, and I wanted to run.
I’m like that. I’ll stop in strange country just to clomp around the snow awhile.
The trailhead was an old XC-ski loop through half-dead woods,
though I could not find the track. I kept stepping off into softer snow.
No stars, far from home, but home in that, I’d say. I was with myself.
Anyhow, I got tired of running in the dark, and headed out the frontage road again.

Those spots where snow and dirt get mixed, and melt, and freeze back over:
tricky. I came rolling round a bend, too fast. Out of night they walked.
A massive mama, tall as my car, no hurry. It made it past me, just,
across the yellow line. I cut behind its ass. Then the young one. Too late now.
Of course I thought to turn but knew I’d slip, careen, end up—

I shot the gap.

                            Straight through.

                                                            The quiet of the cabin, after that.

Nowadays I live back east, where summer lasts until November,
and drive the same overpowered SUV round subdivision traffic circles.
There ain’t much wildlife here, only tons of tame deer.
At night they come too near the road for comfort. I don’t brake though.
I drive them off with just my eyes.