Loon | Alexandra Berryman

One tone, high and silver
glides to desperate heavens
and wanes into the black, black lake

The loon tells his secrets
like you do when you, too are lonely
he coaxes melancholy out of northern air

You have spent months in your little boat
doubling back across the same chain of waterways
attempting to leave the past in a rippling wake

You have thrashed in swift rivers
gouged your keel, joyless and grimacing
cataloged each rock and branch, first upstream then down

And through all the nights the loon sobs
he raises his voice up, up, towards some never-fulfilled future
and lets it fall into you

Again, again, as the fruit ripens
and the ground thaws and the bears wake
he must be back every spring until he dies.

You must not.