The loons left yesterday

taking with them their raucous call

to make their way down the coast

to warmer climates, and some days I wonder

why I don’t follow them, just leave behind the frozen ground

and the cold air, wet with snow and ice,

and make my way to a sandy beach to stretch upon,

a little umbrella’d drink nearby,

a winter tan warming my skin and, perhaps,

my spirit, too, lying there, yet thinking of the lake,

of home, and the eagles that remained to catch the thermals

or perch themselves atop a craggy tree in awe

of a winter morning, blue and clear and bright enough

to see into tomorrow and the summer months ahead,

see the things we lose sight of, lost in our own migrations,

sunshine on the winter snow, glistening and alive and fresh,

us, too, remembering, eager for spring and the loons’ return.