No matter what jumps out at me

ever again, it’ll never match

the humpback rearing up from the sea

behind the headland at Beautiful Cove,

As we were stumbling down the stony path

in the almost-dark, having already spent

nearly two hours, breathless, watching

her tail flukes loop out of the water–

that slow glide topped by a fractional

pause, then a push back down

through the slick obsidian surface–

but this, this was an unbelievable

answer to my prayer: one more

and that monstrous leviathan

breached with a gushing crash

right over that jut of land

her house-sized, sculled head

volcanoeing up, and her eye, I swear,

seemed fixed on us, as if

keeping track. Nothing

will ever match that.

The first day, on our way to Cape North:

the highlands rising like giant loaves;

the tangled jarring release of wilderness.

We soared and swooped the highway’s undulations

through bewilderingly boundless forest.

Beyond, the Atlantic floored us, a diamanted

cobalt, tempting us forward. At McKenzie,

a cluster of vehicles, jeeps, campers, cars,

their occupants spilling onto the road, gawking

with technified eyes into the sprucedepths.

You ask if we should stop but we’ve been

travelling all day. We need to reach our rest.

As I pull round, I see him, driver’s side,

striding along a gully, this lanky

enormity eluding his pursuers

right across from where they peer and probe.

Jesus, get the camera! I blurt and you

dive, obedient. I stab the button

for the window, slide the glass all the way

down. He’s really there, our first moose, as real

as any cow in a field, those towering

legs bearing his immense earth-brown bulk

from us. I slow the car to match him, one

hand on the wheel, one juggling the camera,

while he refuses to break dignity

with a run, but inclines his bulbous chalice

of velveted antler away, assesses

the trees for a break in their screen.

As I struggle to trap the alien

mountainous slope of his back in the lens,

I hear you mutter: Jeepers, look behind!

I glance in the mirror to see we’ve been

spotted: a headlighted cavalcade looms

after us. From the other direction

two more cars appear, slow and pull in, their

drivers jumping manly onto the road.

At that, the moose climbs up the ditch, presses

through a gap, pushes into the ragged

furze of spruce. Now the others have caught us.

A swarm of tourists skelters across our view,

squawking and snapping. A shadow of moose

stares back from behind his native cover.

The first man out of the car opposite

approaches my window, his face transfigured.

Where is he? I point to the curious

hulking form, its lowered head juking

under the branches. The man straightens to scan,

then gasp and click. More of the crowd notice

the animal which turns to lumber and

crash his escape through the densely packed trees.

The people sigh. The man looks back to me,

his face rueful and wondering. His own

silence is all I can answer with. When

he looks away, I glance at you. You nod.

I turn back to the wheel and ease my foot

from the brake. We are the first to move off.