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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment