At the Lake

At the Lake

In August, two loons rear up and stir the water with their feet.

Several yards apart, but majestic in their repertoire,

they yodel their strange songs back and forth.

I say, “Maybe they are courting.”

Mom says, “No it’s the wrong time of year.”

She is always the realist, while I am the dreamer.

But at night, when she lies in her bed,

she looks at the stars and picks out the Big Dipper–

the center of her universe,

while I lie in bed, reading a book.