a lunar disc hangs high

in the midnight firmament

it bends the sun’s radiant output

over the recipient earth

bathing it in a silvery glow

a lake glimmers in the light

the moon, luminant – reflects off

its calm glassy surface

liquid fingers gently bump up

against a canoe from which

a hollow muffled tone emits

beneath, a loon’s haunted call

drifts through gossamer mist

rising from opaque water –

dark indistinct

its fluted cry joins in concert

with the thin soft

lap, lap, lap

of a low cresting wave as it

searches for the shore

a fluid repose its message

lap, lap, lap

Paul Potesta

4/8/2020