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by George Philips

Is the time to hunt the moose.
We use,
Every part of the moose.
The moose,
Has very thick hide.
He runs in fright,
Tail swishing.
We let fly,
Our deadly arrows.
The moose,
Staggers with our arrow's weight.
It sags with the weight.
Whoever kills that moose,
Does not eat it.
He stands and watches,
For sign of approval.
He stands out in the cold.
Only his breechcloth,
Is the only thing he wears.
The oil on his body,
Stinks up the place.
He sits outside,
Begging the great spirit,
To forgive him.
The snow falls in flaky flakes.
He shivers in the cold.
The bare branches,
Have icicles on them.
They hang low,
With a sad kind of look.
The grass is gray,
Like the dirt.
Every animal,
Is hidden in the ground.
Everything is quiet.

George Philips is a 10 year old student from North Stratfield School in Fairfield.

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Document last modified on: 02/12/1998

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