Joy

Like the time I dreamt about a loon family,

just some common loons—not metaphors

in any way, just real loons in a lake swimming

near each other so it was clear they were a set,

preferring each other’s company in the cold

still lake with its depth of reflected pines.

The curve of their black heads and sleek

necks, black and white stripes then checks

on their folded wings, floating so low

atop their reflections they almost seem

inside them. Their wails like wolves, their

calls like an echo without origin, their

calls like an echo of lake, or what makes lake

lake. How nice to think the male and female

loons cannot be told apart by their plumage

and that they build a nest and sit on eggs

together. One of their calls is called “tremolo.”