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

like bayou beasts on midnight shifts

and trees with ancient eyes will age

keeping elder secrets of sage

but through the soap flakes on the sea

the maritime blood in tints of three

the sun and moon will exchange thrones

and the loon will hold her lovely tone