Poetry About Loons

In a black head cutting through lake mist, loons finds a visible shape. One wild call crossing the dark water carries what ordinary speech leaves unfinished. Between silver fish flashing below the reeds and a nest hidden at the quiet shore, the heart learns to listen. The wilderness sometimes announces itself with one unforgettable voice, though the day rarely says so aloud. By night, wings beating low toward autumn becomes a promise rather than an ending.

One wild call crossing the dark water enters the poem first. Loons follows, neither symbol nor explanation, but weather. A nest hidden at the quiet shore keeps the difficult measure. We stand near a black head cutting through lake mist and let certainty loosen. The wilderness sometimes announces itself with one unforgettable voice. Wings beating low toward autumn remains after the room grows quiet.

Someone remembers silver fish flashing below the reeds. Someone else names a black head cutting through lake mist and means an entire life. Loons moves between them with patient hands. One wild call crossing the dark water refuses to become only background. The wilderness sometimes announces itself with one unforgettable voice. At last, wings beating low toward autumn gives the silence somewhere to rest.