Loon-Link

POBTRY

LOON-LINK

Loon cry, under the late, round moon

So pure silver, as from a silver trumpet:

Ofall the means of linkage, the many, many

Connectives, what a good one, how thrilling,

To fly, to tie together the spread mazes

Of lakes, each bound in its own night thickets;

Long, smooth, silver, trumpeting cry

Rising perhaps from the cattail bay on Henry

To fly on every compass arrow; to carry

To cold and empty Lost, to Pleasant that has

Shores thick in pine; to flicker up choked creeks

To Sunset, to Dewdrop, on to the potholes ahead;

To glance over Big Star, green, and Little Star, blue

(Silver, arrowing call from the throat of a loon),

And black-looking Beaver, its shore with a down birch

Where sometimes a wood duck perches; to touch shut lilies

Locked in their pads on Round; at last to bring

To someone awake a richness of night lakes.