Loons at Dawn, Gun Lake
Would you call it singing, that deep, eerie wail the loons make, haunting the lake and the mist that keeps the sunrise from staining the water? After the loons speak–low and lingering like an impossible question–their voices echo inside me. The hair on my arms stands up. Would you call it mourning–despite this dawn bringing its smoke and ashes, its roses and mint–here beside the lake’s still eye, wide open?
Sunrise, All Day Long
Today is wind that smells like mint blowing in from the lake. Today is a paper crane, just folded. Today is a bleached sheet pulled from the linen closet, trailing the delicate scent of green soap. Today is a small brown snail’s pearly trail across the ivy. An eggshell cracked open by raccoon or turtle or fox. Today is a sharpened pencil, a sealed love letter, the antique locket in my mother’s jewelry box. A rectangular pink eraser, straight out of the package. That one black and white bird perched on the sailboat’s mast, preening its glossy tuxedo and singing a boisterous, throaty song.
