Loons enchant me. Growing up without their presence, I now follow them on the lake with something bordering on obsession.
Like an early British anthropologist (I need a Pith helmet), I stalk them in the kayak, observing their movements, watching their synchronized dives, and just waiting to hear one of their many calls.
In the middle of the night, often when I wake up from funtimes with insomnia, I hear their warbled call echo through the forest. It’s usually perfectly quiet except for their song, and the occasional rustle of something in the woods.
I don’t know what it is about these birds, but I can’t get enough.
Whether it’s the fact that their legs are too far back on their bodies so that they can’t walk on land (evolution what?), their incredible coloring, or their unique call, I am always happy to have their lullaby.
This was particularly clear a few nights ago when P and I, enjoying some GoT on one of our many decks, heard something unfamiliar. Strange. Disturbing.
Imagine the combination between a baby screaming and a dying chicken.
That, my friends, would be the cry of the fisher. And if I never hear it again, it will be too soon.
Bring back the loons.