Loon
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in the ponds of mountain no tomorrow
mother loon croons her songs of sorrow
and though the tufts of storms blow by
she will not quit her phantom cry
the corpses of canoes will sink and lift
A single loon floated above the winter
Harbor mist. Gliding between masts of sunken,
Broken ships. Swirling circles like an eclipse
Of the moon. An entrancing stillness heard there