loons, are you still out there

I do not intend to be deceived.

It is dusk. The mountains have gone

grey. Everything is drowned by the sound

of crickets, excep semis spewing dust along route 5.

Where are you now?

Whese nights--coming back to 

old hallowed ground-- the ground is just ground,

with tree stumps eaten by grubs

and moss filtering rainwater.

These days, i go to cemeteries 

to feel the wind carry me, 

closer to death than before.

searching.

I howl in some rough approximation of you,

but nothing responds.

A great horned owl. Grand echo.

Have you been hunted?

Did you not come back to see us like this?

Now it is black.

Stars stand in the wings behind

thick clouds, i know, but

mostly the whole world hangs between

the inhale and exhale.

Where shall we put this desire to see each other so clearly?

To play, when so clearly we have war ahead?

What shall happen to our souls if there is no morning,

no great siren keening, cracking the night open?

Shall everything be a bill to be paid?

This week, i worked from the dock,

laptop set and eyes blind to the wild

foraging presence all around me. But then

i came here searching, knowing

i would only have brief moments

above the water to look for you.

The ripples go out and on,

connecting the cold, deep water to the milky way.

We are all swallowed eventually by this,

a place just being a place,

but i wanted to hear again

that someone is crying for what has happened, 

that what we have lost is more than attrition,

that a world pregnant with something warm

thrums just below or above this surface.

Maybe…

Is that you calling? It sounds

more screech than song.

I do not intend be inconsolable