Overlaid with hoofprints, but also filled floor to ceiling with clutter and bric-a-brac, Davis's full-bleed domestic scenes furnish a backdrop to an unseen narrator's mystified rhyme, as an array of wildlife looks on: "There are wood chips in my guest bed, / but a beaver spent the night. / He got hungry, and the bedpost / looked so good, he took a bite. / Wood chips, I remember. / But who left all these moose tracks?"
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