“A solitary loon gliding across a still lake in the morning”

Upon the mirrored face of dawn’s embrace,  
A solitary loon in gentle grace  
Glides through the hush—her paddle never heard—  
A painted wisp, a silent water bird.  

Mist hovers pale atop the sleeping blue,  
The shoreline pine draped soft in dew  
Stands watching, bowed by the patient light,  
As gold unraveling scatters night.  

Her breast, a sweeping moon, splits glassy calm,  
And in her wake, the day takes balm,  
Crimson sunrise trembling on her wings—  
A fleeting hush before she sings.  

Her call, when woven, threads through empty air  
With ancient ache, with wild despair;  
It shivers reeds and floats along the sand,  
Lonely as hope in an untouched land.  

And I, ashore, breathe in morning’s tune,  
My soul afloat with that haunted loon.  
For in this gentle glide across the lake,  
The stillness teaches all that dawn can make.

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