The loons are calling at Porcupine Lake,
haunting cries as one flits across the water,
swift-winged, after his mate,
and I think of you, old pal of mine,
how we walked so many miles
of shoreline, explored so many
forest trails, you ahead, always,
tail up, eyes bright, your wild heart
thrilling as you visited
your wilderness home.
I knew you always wanted to stay.
You'd pick up a piece of driftwood,
carry it back to the car, climb reluctantly in,
dejected till the next time
I pointed the nose of the car
towards our lost home.
Then you'd bark, so excited,
and leap from back seat to front,
from front to back, your big tail
whapping me across the face
with every jump, me laughing,
your eyes full of joy,
heading home. Heading home.
Now I am here without you,
old pal of mine, and the lonely cry
of the loon flying after its partner
is my heart winging its way to you
across the years and miles.
(How many miles is it from here
to the Rainbow Bridge? Too many
for any but hearts to make the passage.)