Elk and Christmas Cookies

Rain fell hard. A river ran fast behind me. A creek swelled parallel to me. Fields began to flood. I parked my car in a lot, turned off the engine and crucified the Jesus radio. I was the only one around. I opened a can of Christmas cookies baked by my mother and waited for elk to arrive because this was a magical place where they always grazed, dozed and rutted.

I tasted the tree-shape cookie with green frosting and sprinkles and thanked the ocean for my mother. I finished the cookie and waited.

Rain picked up and was undulating across the fields. Another cookie. No elk. I cast a spell to invite their appearance. I wanted elk with Christmas cookies.

A few minutes later, the elk arrived. Or did they? I couldn’t see a damn thing out the window because of the steam.

I ate another cookie and emptied the box. I lifted the box and guzzled the crumbs. Five more minutes elapsed. I might have fallen asleep.

Dark forms appeared outside the car. Elk? Sure, why not? I had cast my spell and doubtless the cookies had a role in the conjuring. Merry Christmas elk.

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