The Loon

Riding my bike around Windsor Lake

I remembered the loon I had seen last week,

and thought I saw something black.

It was a brilliant morning, starting September:

east was the water, and east the sun. I was

looking onto it, into it, glad.

Everything was glorious, glittering and dazzling,

pointed and golden, diamond in the breeze.

The virgin forest on the far side,

of stunted and leaning fir and spruce,

was as healthy as The North can be,

thriving in Fall weather.

I pulled off the road and planted one foot

on the guardrail to watch as far as the trees,

and, for a moment, nothing.

Then, of a sudden, there he was,

His Nibs, alone on the choppy water,

coming up rich from a routine dive

to sit for a minute, swallowing, I suppose.

Then he dove again, and I went on my way.