A solitary loon
drifts low in the water,
dives for food,
rises to the surface,
then lifts herself from the lake
to the tip of her tail,
face demurely turned,
wings fluttering,
a geisha's coy dance.
As dusk closes its bleary eye,
the loon's plaintive wail
plunges into our aloneness,
taunts that self
we mask all day
with beguiling manipulations
of our fans.
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