Out beyond the sunken shallows,
a saltwater bay,
almost still,
save for one loon.
This loon,
alone,
and I sink down,
interpretation low and sad.
I imagine it lost,
abandoned,
its mate long gone:
that storm,
those lights,
that boat.
But if I bend it back,
change the story
I can see it content,
after a morning bath,
she’s clean and alert,
a webbed foot thrust out behind,
as it floats,
giving in to the currents,
it knows deep
in the silence of its bones.
A small boat approaches from the north,
and then I hear it:
a quick trilling tremolo of warning.
There’s another loon,
beyond the buoys,
swimming in.
I am hushed,
and humbly whisper,
“I’m sorry.”
I leave them to what they know:
water,
inside and out,
fresh and salty.
Alone and together.
The story,
rewritten.
aneverydaypoet60 