Out into the cold
a loon calls to its mate.
Steam rises on the water.
I think of my father misting the window
of the old green Chevrolet with scraps
of Nat King Cole and Velvet Fog
on the long drive to the nursing home.
We earn the ache that waits for us
long past the final note.
The moon blows back a brassy chord
on the pond's black skin.
by Joel B. Peckham, Jr.
originally published in