Last Meeting
Listen to the nightingale. Do not dispute the loon.
The truth is told by lonely things calling under the moon.
Brought to the brink, their plaintive truth we cannot impugn
as we glide to their music, out into the lagoon.
Waves form spreading circles around our small pontoon.
Internal sorrows follow them, lapping a soulful tune.
Slanted columns of moonbeams are swallowed by each dune.
Like our brief encounter, over too soon, too soon.
Prompt words are brink, column, internal and impugn. Image by Damir Spanic on Unsplash, used with permission.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
A farmer in the village once had a pair of loon on his pond. They make a real crazy noise for a bird.
Love the atmosphere of this piece. Nature always helps me enjoy it too. Well done.
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Thanks, Mason.
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The sound of loons calling across a lake at night was one of the most beautiful sounds I ever heard. We don’t seem to have loons around here. I think we don’t have enough fish for them to eat, but they are truly the sound of the great northern lakes. The sound of Maine after dark.
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They are a haunting sound.
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A suitably repetitive mournful rhythm
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Thanks, Derrick. I love the attention with which you read…
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Your work is worth it, Judy. I’m pleased you appreciate it.
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So beautiful, I found it contemplative and self-reflective which is perfect for the word of the day, Internal 🙂
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Thankw, Kristian.
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This was lovely and sad at the same time. As always, I love your writing.
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An thanks, Puneybones. I always enjoy yours as well. Hope there is a serving in “Notifications” right now.
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