Poem By Ima Ryma
Along a narrow, winding trail,
I'm leading my scout troop along,
Merrily over hill and dale,
Singing scouting song after song.
I round a bend and bump into
A moose calf sleeping in the path.
From the thick brush, I hear a clue,
The sounds of mama moose in wrath.
I whirl around and shout, 'Go back.'
We topple down like dominoes.
I brace myself for her attack.
She stops her charge right at my toes.
Maybe maternal juices flow.
She lets us all get up and go.