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Call of the Loon
Brooding with Shostakovich on the unpleasentries.
No salt please, I humbly request.
Over the shoulder in hopes that spilled sweet nothings will be forgiven.
I'll laugh like a loon suspended in the moonlight.
Capturing the chilled crisp winter air.
Where my breath drifts outwards.
I connect a line of faith to the stars above.
In vain I wait, perched upon a cold iron gate.
Touch the frozen statue;
free it from it's solipsism state.
In which nothing is real.
Loons
I remember hank fonda and katie hepburn - thanks for the sound of loons and water lapping a shore ~Lady A~
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On a Golden pond...
Interesting comment. Thanks for the words.