Loon Island

What do you say to an island? 

Hello.

Hello, there. 

I came to say...

Yes?

Just hello, I guess.

Hello.

And what is it like and how does it feel and what are the sounds and smells and tastes of being here so always, so all-year-everyday, so long?

It is like...

Yes?

This.

When I canoe across the wide water, when I slide into the bay, along its shore, I pay attention. I notice muskrats and blackbirds, fish flopping, and wind. I think about its name--Loon--and its location--south--and I wonder at the way it was when those northern birds were here enough to leave their name. How much changes on an island like this? No houses, no campers, no impervious surfaces. Just green and brown and blue and green and green and green and green. What is it like to be so set apart? To have children watch you every summer of their lives, curious and wise? And then for them to go away, sometimes for long stretches of time, only to come back older and quieter and less brave? Does the island pay attention, I wonder? Does it know my name?

Hello.

Hello, there. 

I came to say...

Yes?

Hello.

Hello.

And that I'm glad you're here, there, where you are in the middle of all this water and in the winter ice because you are so much of my memories, a relative's face, and I look for you in my mind when I am feeling lonely and you are always where I knew you'd be.

I am here.

Yes.

Right here.
An island.
Surrounded by you and us and me.