The moose noses open the refrigerator, gorges on pickles and raw meat, beer and condiments. Inside the refrigerator hangs a picture of another well-stocked refrigerator. The moose eats it as well. Stuffed. Stretched taut, the stitched seam holding together the moose’s stomach pops and onto the floor spill his animating innards, all violence and tomorrows. A picture of a forest stream, clear and deep. A picture of a field in fog, and in the fog the outline of a moose. Himself. He strikes at the pictures with his hooves, smashing the framed glass, puncturing the images, cracking the frames. The certainty of the hunter. Spent, the moose collapses, strikes his head on the kitchen counter, jars loose from its socket a glass eyeball. Spinning beneath the refrigerator, the eyeball knows at once it will be comfortable here, in this new, so familiar darkness.