Advice from the Last Loon
If you have ever heard my cry,
even once,
you still have not forgotten
that wild sweet yearning
for some indescribable paradise
shaken loose inside you.
I know what it is like to ride on a pillow
of blue water twinkling with sunstars,
with my youngster on my back
and my partner beside me.
I know the immutable dark green of the pines
and have seen stark winter branches
unfurl each spring their buds of green flame
into an amazement of foliage,
mad to sort the winds of any summer storm.
I know that joy takes many forms.
I know cold rain
and moody mornings
when the air hangs thick with mists.
I know the long dive in clear clean water
and the skill of the catch
and the satisfaction of feeding one’s constant companion,
hunger.
And in my many lives
I have known the closing of the eye
and have felt the teeth of fox
pierce my body.
I know the utter stillness of deep nights
far removed from human commotion.
And I have seen when colder days
splash burning reds and startling yellows
over my neighbors, the hills.
All of this, my life,
I put into my cry.
And, as I am the last of my kind,
I make this request:
Carry my cry with you
as you travel through desperate times
into the future,
as in your many stories of an ark
carrying life safely through a flood.
What my cry has touched in you
is the source of your gift.
Live my cry
when you work to heal the world.
