Twins

The sun was barely cresting the ridge this morning when we saw them. Emma growled low and I told her to hush, because I wanted to hold the moment for a little while.

A huge bull moose was standing proud a hundred feet away, next to a smaller mama just pushing up from the grass.

With twins.

I’d never seen moose twins before. They were playing with each other like Labradors, rolling through the dried-up spring where they’d bedded down last night. Tiny squeaks and grunts accompanied each flop, until the mama nosed them along. Time to go.

I pulled up a couple of mornings ago to one of only three stoplights in this little town, coffee in hand and Springsteen on the radio. I was turning left onto Main Street, with one of my mares in the trailer, and the left-turn signal was red. So I waited.

A horn blared behind me, for probably 7 seconds, sending my horse into a panic. She started screaming and jumping around in the trailer, and I thought something was wrong.

Maybe the trailer door had swung open, or something was on fire.

I rushed out of the truck while the horn was still honking. Nothing was wrong, except the guy with slicked-back yellowing hair in a brand-new black Benz a few inches from the trailer, giving me the finger.

He was alone in the car, window up, mask on. I approached him anyway, and he yelled through the glass that the goddamn light was green.