The Loon

So you died, caught, I'll bet
in that gill net out there
held up by those big orange balls
stretched halfway across Tulalip Bay.
The Indian fisherman had to haul you up
then disentangle you
like so much stringy, green kelp.
It's unnatural that you should drown
that way, a perfect invention to water.
I'm sure I watched you the day before
yesterday, working the quiet shallows
around the boat dock
straight out from my little cabin.
Listen bird, I'm past making death sad.
The tide has no time for wakes
or tragedies. We're either coming in
or going out. It's like that,
the soul for a while boxed up
in feathers or this frail
human body of mine.
I'm just taking a little time out
from my walk because, well,
your drowned body is here
at my feet, even in death,
moving, unruffled.