A COMMON LOON

I can still hear the call of the loon

That most uncommon loon of the north.

When the moon rides high in the sky

And clouds go racing ahead of the wind,

A sound comes across those autumn lakes

That only the common loon can make.

It is as if nature is calling to its mate;

Or a lonely trapper is dreaming of love.

The haunting tremolo of sound strikes

The quiver of the heartstrings of men.

Sometimes in my lair above the city streets,

I seem to hear those loons flying south.

A picture forms of a special lake

Where the loon calls with hoots,

Tremolos and wails

As the fish leap and splash in the water.

Trees glow with the fluorescence of the moon,

While the Northern Lights flash across the sky.

I fall into a sweet-dream sleep

That ends too soon in the flush of dawn’s light.

Reluctantly, I rise to face reality.