Moss covers the glossy outline of his pupil
In streams of gold, of hazel, of effervescent orange.
They explode in a drowned current.

I, the loon will dive deep,
catching nothing but scales that shine 
up through the stream from your heart.

The loon is lonely now.
Only when the fish are not there 
to catch, hold, touch...

She knows of where they are 
but not yet how to reel them back in. 

So the loon stays hungry.
Earthquakes shatter in her stomach.
She waits.
Listens.

Before the loon is to perish
The bait return.
He smells the despair.
Fingers return to my hair,
lips crush against mine, defying nature.