Loon Song

Motor is nudged to life in an arcing motion, arm pulling cord. Vein-furrowed hands grasp the fishing pole, slinging bait and tackle beneath one arm. Another arcing motion, arm casting pole. Bobber spins a helicopter course through sun-nipped air. Loons call a soulful greeting, the moans of centuries' separated lovers in mourning. Time trickles through the notes of their songs. Meanwhile, bass glide with their loud-mouthed sass, perch and blue gills play tag. A lone blue heron bills the murky depths for lunch. Man baits his hook, readjusts his hat. Eyes squint into the dark undertones of the pond. He casts his pole, a fermata in the song of the loons. When this man was a boy, he drove the spires of the Rocky Mountains, frequented the five-and-dime, nuzzled a nightly routine next to his wife, who mothered six children, raised in a house far away from any pond. They bustled themselves along through school as well as any fish pouncing on supper-flies, dabbing napkins to the corners of their mouths. This fisherman sliced their steak, knotted their ties, held their hands crossing the street until they were old enough to mail college resumes, pay for first dates. Five years, fifteen years, thirty-two years and here is Granddad, with his child's toddler learning to walk in the bowed belly of his fishing boat. They stumble, clanging clumsy feet on the metal, frightening the fish away. The old man bends low, a note in the song of the loons. He places the toddler on two feet, guides her hesitant steps, each pendulum swing carrying them a moment further toward separation. In twelve years, the grown child bends low, a note in the song of the loons, to kiss her grandfather's forehead, as he casts off on his helicopter course of afterlife.