“The spruce are dense above the lake.
A thick, gray driftwood, sharp and bent,
Margins the shore with heavy lines.
The overhanging aspens shake
Their dry deciduous sentiment
Into the cool, reflected pines.
“There is a limit here of tree
And water: form has gained its end,
Lost in continual reflection.
Through shades the glossy visions flee
And in a darker calm distend
Downward in shadowy perfection.
“Across the lake at evening, wild
And distant, like unhallowed ghosts,
The loons converse. Rotten and dank,
The logs jut rudely: split and piled
They slant into the dusk like posts
Unearthed and cast against the bank.”
The call of the loon is the most bereft sound I know in nature. I remember waking to it in the morning fog when camped on the shore of Pyramid Lake. It sounded like a lost, disconsolate soul. My condolences go to Helen and her family.