My paddle, an enchanted wand, directs
a wailing chorus, a concert of laughter,
a solo performance beneath the stars.
I, lunatic conductor of a squalling orchestra
of the demented laughter of a choir of loons
Opaline tufts of down afloat on the tide
Crashing rivers agleam as quicksilver I see
For the loons know the way, the eternal rite.
Most all that dies today; one day, one way,
comes back, renewed, of stardust reborn
Been looking for what may be left of us
Could it be lost in the lost and found?
Somehow things never work the same
Returning to where I’ve been before