September 28th, 2016
The letter is L for Loon
Not quite four a.m. when the rapture of being alive
strikes me from sleep, and I rise
from the comfortable bed and go
to another room, where my books are lined up
in their neat and colourful rows. How
magical they are! I choose one
and open it. Soon
I have wandered in over the waves of the words
to the temple of thought.
And then I hear
outside, over the actual waves, the small,
perfect voice of the loon. He is also awake,
and with his heavy head uplifted he calls out to the fading moon, to the pink flush
swelling in the east that, soon,
will become the long, reasonable day.
Inside the house
it is still dark, except for the pool of lamplight
in which I am sitting.
I do not close the book.
Neither, for a long while, do I read on.
The Loon on Oak-Head Pond
cries for three days, in the gray mist
cries for the north that it hopes it can find
plunges, and comes up with a slapping pickerel,
blinks its red eye
you come every afternoon and wait to hear it,
you sit a long time, quiet, under the thick pines,
in the silence that follows,
as though it were your own twilight,
as though it were your own vanishing song.
Mary Oliver, (again)
For more great Ls visit here at ABC Wednesday
with thanks to Roger, Denise, Leslie
and their lovely helpers.