The Lonely Cry of the Loon

I do not know where they go….
The loons that cry upon the northern lakes,
Calling through early morning mist,
Their voices an ancient sound
Echoes within wild interior of the soul,
Drops behind the brow,
Dives deeply to some haunted place
Unseen, unmapped upon the surface of the mind.
 
Only in the north are waters cold enough.
Darker shadows match their black and white,
Center curving down beneath the waterline,
But it is their lonely cry that returns to visit me at night,
A high trembling call lasting through so many years,
Remembered floating, forlorn in waking morning light.
Once the lamenting calls of loons
Sink within the memory, it takes the form of
Floating prayer, swimming with the suffering tide.
Suddenly, they flap strong wings and fly away,
Breaking loose, they soar and disappear.

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