THE CALL OF THE LOON
H. W. Bryce
The sandy shore, quiet azure sky,
The luxury of the northern forest,
The quiet breathing of contentment,
And I hear the call of the loon.
Haunting, calling, all is right in my world.
And as I lay in my sleeping bag, I look
Up and see a star through a pinhole
In the canvas. I am one with Nature.
I try to stay awake, just to hear that
Longing wail, the call of the loon,
The last thing I hear as darkness
Paints over the stunning scenery.
But the song of the loon stays in my
Brain as I rise with the sun, glorious
Morning, freshest air in the world,
Loon Lake, childhood holiday.
I launch my canoe and paddle in the
Hush of the dawn, for the sheer joy
Of it, feeling the stretch of my muscles,
The loosening of the city tensions
And the loon swims out with her babies
And yodels that everlasting melody
Her chicks paddling along behind her,
The smallest on her back. I am mesmerized.
The loon calls, the wolf responds, yodel
And howl, Nature is alive and well, and
So am I, here in Nature’s bed.
And I pack up my gear and take these
Haunting sounds back to the city with
Me, to nourish me midst the hustle and
Bustle of the white noise of city life.
