I have heard the chorus of loons trilling across wild Quebec nights,
Winding into the furls of wind like sleek ribbons of moonlight,
Banking against the neck of the mountains, casting their songs
Into my sleep. The tongues of autumn lace into dawn, golden
Stalks of sun fray the dusk, thread and sew their eerie voice
Into the quilt of day. If I were a lake, I would lie in wait.
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