The Northern Lights dance in unreachable ribbons
above the head of a dead bull moose.
Stuffed and mounted on wall of tacky pine,
positioned above a false granite hearth,
He’s forced to stared out double glazed windows
and forever watch the shifting skies,
while the winds susurrate solar cinders
and stream like a Styx of souls -
slain by excesses of encroaching sportsmen.
His tufted brown ears perk up at the howl of the huskies
but its only wire forcing form into his preserved pelt
with his thick brown fur stopping abruptly at the neck.
His killers in their regicide cared not
for the long legs that carried him thousands of miles,
nor the broad shoulders that pushed down trees,
in a passing attempt to scratch an itch,
His only crime was his broad branching antlers -
His crowning expressions of sexual prime.
His jaw is pearled with gentle round teeth
ringing a false mouth that hangs slack in mid bray.
He tries to greet the shimmering skies
to bugle forth one more call of clashing battle
as if he could rear up on hind legs and clatter his hooves
to declare this territory, “Mine!”
But that plastic mouth was molded in Texas
And mass produced into expressions of realism
speaking through acrylic gums and tongues.
His glass eyes cannot perceive the heavenly hues
as they cavort above conifers encrusted in ice.
He cannot see the silent parade of his scion,
marching by in a secreted trail known only to natives.
His great grand son following in his hoof steps
through the woods of an inherited kingdom.
In another two seasons this one too will be dead,
by a paid and pampered safari of some rich hunter,
who slept warm inside instead of looking up in wonder.