Underneath the lush willow, oak, and maple,
Underneath the buck thorn and lilac bushes,
Underneath the ferns, and meadow rue, and hostas,
Stretch the manicured lawns, the paved sidewalks and streets.
Lawn mowers chug and sputter, while cars rush by.
Trucks give off their diesel smell as gears whine.
Dryer sheets, charcoal grills, and hot tar smells braid together
While basketballs thump above the noise of children playing.
Crows clatter high in the trees, laughing and scolding,
While lesser birds twitter nervously below them.
And somewhere, on a lake hidden behind houses
Is the unmistakable long treble of a single loon trilling.
And I wonder why here? Why in the noise and clutter of the city?
Why is it not further north in a wild fir-fringed lake?
Where food is more plentiful, the lakes are quieter,
And the little loons can rest safely, riding on mama's back.
And then I wonder, maybe the loon is here in the city
To remind us that up north there are fir trees instead of paved roads,
The lakes are quieter than the diesel trucks and lawn mowers,
And we can rest safely with our family, those we love.
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