The last day of absolute summer began,
Astronomical and meteorological versions
In sync for one more spin. I had completed
Fifty-five orbits as an earthling since birth.
I was not likely to complete another,
Although no one knew how unlikely I was,
Not even me, who suspected the worst.
Back at the disjointed little cabin on the lake
After seventeen days orbiting Canada alone,
I stayed up for the personal New Year's Day
While daughter slept in her cubby with toys.
I waited out night and thought of the absent.
Someone unknown moaned in the woods,
Possibly a neighbor, probably nothing
Serious, but an unnerving cry nonetheless,
So close to midnight. The news of the world
Was one unrelenting moan that night,
The moon glowering orange through the smoke
Of our great summer of ashes in the north.
The lake lay low under the smoke, existing
As accidental phenomenon to which I gave
The holiest identity it was mine to bestow.
Past midnight, the most arbitrary human line,
I thought of my mother in labor with her first
Child that old night, and of the long winter
Night I waited for daughter myself, howling
In unison with her cleaving mother. Suffering
Is special for our species, we who know it
In our moaning bones for what it really is,
Simultaneously temporary and inevitable
As is a season, a year, a vanishing, a sleep,
As any return to a difference, as a three-part
Shout in the dark from an unknown throat,
Then the sound of an engine in the woods.
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