Mama, I hear the loons crying.
I wish you could hear them singing in the night.
Songs of suffering,
Songs of might, if, maybe,
Songs to the wind without meaning.
For thirty years they’ve been singing, but we weren’t around to listen.
The one sound I wish I could hear again.
I wish I could have given you that.
After all this distance, I finally understand what it means to need someone else.
A solitary loon is singing.
And I hear it crying.
There’s an emptiness in it that fills me up.
The emptiness of mist sweeping over a lake in the cold morning air,
of fog swirling over mountain peaks,
of sunsets not shared with any other soul.
The loons are crying, howling, breathing, singing, deepening the northern nights.
And I only I hear them, resounding in unison.