Poems by Michael Campagnoli
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Loons: the dance
by Michael Campagnoli
Michael lives in the St. George-Sheepscot Watershed along the coast of Maine, just past Gooseberry Nubble.
1
long April days
he waits
the lonely call unanswered
the worried hoot
the watched return
the risk
of oil slick
of mile-long nets
strangled in a haul of cod
thrown limp for chow
upon a bait bin
but comes the day
the splash and spray
the looked-for guest:
bills tucked
they kwuk
circle and cry
surface and dive
two sleek black heads
entwined
their wakes commingled
2
in tall grass near the water’s edge,
old nest, flattened by the weight of snow
made new by moss and salvaged sedge
assiduous
and two
soon brown-specked
green-brown eggs
appear
luminous
3
the wheel of black-backed gull
turtle’s vice-like grip
sea bass teeth
pickerel and pike
skunks and weasel
and hungry coon
amid cries of heron
and hermit thrush
two chicks
abound their mother’s back
and peep with life
where danger lurks
4
the sun
big, fat,
golden cat
implacable
boils heavy air
from the languid
and paludal gulf
even dragonflies
refuse to buzz
water soft with movement
misty fog, the chicks
so plump
can scarcely dive,
zig-zag
between their parents’ wake
and sail
the summer’s twilight
5
the Bog is red in August,
and grass-pinks and pitcher plants
in fours and fives
are veined so deep
the red is like a pumping blood
6
berries swell and seed heads burst
Queen Anne shimmers in the setting sun
Mosquitoes, black flies subside:
two large and clumsy
dull-grey birds
await
the male
and swim
like chicks to beg
a bounty
7
first frost has bruised the tender plants
and brush has turned to brackened brown
white bark bright yellow birch
abuts blue spruce
and deepened pine
chicks are nearly grown
flight feathers long and straight
whose weight exceeds its strength
who beat and thrash
but cannot fly
8
geese and ducks
have flown
hard rains have
blown the leafless trees
high above
two
circle once,
then blink from sight
the sun sinks
behind
a ragged ridge
shell ice rims
the water edge
young loons
remain
bereft
alone
in darkness
swim
long shadows
9
wings along the surface
flap
and rise
cushioned by the wild surmise
of lightless air
and boundless sky
trees and rocks and fields
recede behind
the cold cove ebbs to
silver shine
a small
flat pocket
in the dying light
Title poem from Michael's book (Pudding House Publications, 2008)
© Michael Campagnoli