Loon. Prodigious eater of fish
black torpedo in black water.

No one on the surface
can see him hunt or the fish ahead
starburst and

only understand his hunger
by the sudden butterfly of tail
flapping before he swallows.

He cruises, looking steadily underwater
at shadows and light, where the senses
of the upper world are drowned.

I swim deep through summer watching you.
The shadows pass behind your eyes and
occasionally rise as words

or turn and vanish in the depths. I dive
after them fishtailing ahead of me
slippery, nimble.

When November skim ice rimes the shore
each dive is deeper into the cold and black
and white pattern of ice on fish and bird,

and I am bereft as
the loon calls, opening his empty bill
in the hungry air.