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Loons In Winter

by Laura Bowden

The sound of a loon calling is synonymous
With northerly twilit summers,
Seeping through the misted air,
Reminding again that the eponymous
Indian’s summer comes with wing-beating drummers,
Hunting them to extinction, unaware,
From the northerly twilit night.

The sight of a loon in sunshine goes unnoted
On southern and iceless ponds,
Their feathers grayed, down-dressed
For winter’s careless afternoons, uncoated,
And quickly disremembering their far-off bonds
Or the weight of feeling unrepressed
With comfortable, careless sunlight