Out toward the center of the lake, august summer nights, the water dead calm. the atmosphere uninterrupted, both surface and air. they could not see one another and could no longer hear all the commotion on every shore. a loon gets lonely, too.
and there despair was born. made it’s way up the long and slender throats. the necks pointed to the sky, and curves of beak parted, opening throats to air. the saddest melody filled the lonely night with sound. echoes in every cove.
we were young and holding hands. snuck out with flashlights to walk the banks to the painted bridge. hidden in the deepest shadows of the canopy, on a new moon night. drawn together out on the island, waiting. long winter a distant memory.
listen… the aching pain of solitude is calling! before i only heard your sweet voice. so small we are… touching your soft warm palm with mine… feeling your breath on my face… i may never feel so close to you again.