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A WEEK ON SQUAM LAKE by Torre DeVito I had never heard a loon cry Until that first night in New Hampshire At the lake house in Holderness While we nine friends (more like one family: five siblings with four parents) Talked and joked and made loon-puns: About bird's underwear (panta-loons), And big mean ugly birds (loon-goons). Meanwhile the haunting, lonely sound Entered my soul. And then that first brisk morning We woke before the fish Picked our way between the wisps Of silent silver mist to cast our lines to the dark water. It was the last time a summer day Would seem to linger for a brief eternity Those languid days which stretched before me like the lake, yet rushed behind me Like the wake of our small mottorboat The last warm days of a summer that had begun With the death of a friend And would soon fade into the autumn of my childhood. Even now I hear the sounds Of days that ended way too soon: The lap of water 'gainst the boat, A fat trout flapping on the dock, Slap of paddles, outboard's drone, The laughter, and the loons.
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Aching
The Accountant's Soul
Be Strong My Love
Commuting
Cosmology
Cross Pollination
Drawing Lessons
Fig Preserves
Gliding
Grace
Hypothermia
A Long Way South of Now
Manchild
Monument
Mountains
Onion
Oyster S(Hell)
Poetry Juice
Poetry Lessons
Rorschach
Roses in Winter
Salvation
Scrub Pines
Sonogram
Squam Lake
Tristan Drowning