Call of the Loon
Come back.
It’s cold here without you.
When I bend my neck to drink
there is no reflection in the water.
Come back to the wild.
When I call your name
it ricochets off trees,
slips down the bank,
squats mute as stone on the lily pad where
a bullfrog once left a faint depression.
Come back.
I long to be near you.
I tilt my bill to drink the stars,
sorrow throbbing in my throat,
my back bare as the hollow in the bed
beside me.