Maybe it wasn't THAT freezing but it was quite chilly. And possibly it wasn't morning, exactly, but mid-morning, around just before noon. While it's true that a moose did not come to dinner, it's an almost certain uncertainty that there were three.
So I gave the sneaky moosen each a different muffin and when they ate their fill, a muffin a piece, if you can believe it, they were quite big muffins, extremely so, in fact, they sat on the lawn and stared at the sky until the moon rose overhead, bidding the sun adieu.
At that point, the dogs had grown weary of watching the massive tree trunks trek through the prairie homestead. They fell, succumbing to the weary lullaby of our moose-induced laughter, one by one, to slumber at our feet.
We awoke, a tangled pretzel of canine and human limbs and tails, suddenly, when the sun began strumming its finger rays against the windowpane. We six, the dogs four, us two, looked out, reinvigorated by sleep, hoping for one more glance, one more reassurance that the show of last night was not a fallacy, was not fake, imagined, or painted false in our collective minds but tried and true. No evidence shone neon in the yard, the giant, almost too giant for human consumption, muffins crafted the night previous still lay, cooling on the cookie rack.
Stumbling from the house drunk on crudely begotten memories, us six searched for any sign of our intruders from a hubcap footprint or music note, fallen from the tune of their dance. We sat on the lawn and stared at the sky until the moon rose overhead, bidding the sun adieu.
No newspaper reported on the strange behavior of our giant horned neighbors, no photographs were printed, giving life to a story untold by those who saw it.
Days after, we tried to explain what we had seen to one another. Had we not seen what we had seen together, we may never have believed it happened, in retrospect. The canine quartet, unable to speak English, or any language understood by us, the Neanderthals, wagged their tails and drooled when we asked what they had seen.
We looked at one another, gaped, shook our heads, laughed, just happy that someone else was around to testify the next night we recall the morning the moose three came to eat man-sized muffins on the lawn and dance with the moon.
Mere words fail to describe what transpired for the following hours two, a sort of memory amnesia, as recalled, with a touch of hyperbole, here.
We weren't sure if it was because we were the only two people for miles in every direction who were witnessing the show, or if it was because it was our first time, a virgin aurora borealis high, or because it was so abrupt, so sudden, that we weren't ready to experience it that made it all so inscribable. Even now, we try to describe to one another what we saw, and we just can't.
Ever the writer, after we returned home, I jotted down the following lines, for they spoke to me as the truest account of our night, save the elusive moose, gigantic muffins, and moonlit waltz:
flaring up in pockets the hues of gigantic
precious gemstones melting across
the starry canvas.
As they retreated,
scared away by the monstrous super moon,
we waved goodbye to those we lost and
thanked them for the show. ]