Loon

The bluff above our tent extended east and west well into the Maine Lake. With the night came a June thunderstorm out of the north. Jo and I lay smoking comfortably, watching vivid flashes light up dark spruce ridges. When the first bursts hurtled by we heard the weird war whoop of the LOONS coming to us, up wind. "Maybe they think the Big Chief's comin!"

Soon the two forms were visible, upright, with fanning wings and beating feet — advancing in the wind's eye.

I think Jo was right; they went past the point, calling wildly and always going on toward the lightning and thunder which now came in staccato bursts, the two intrepid birds against foam-dark water — their exultant battle cries — the chaos of sound — a blended picture of noise and sable color memory never releases.

I have known them for many years but always they seem remote — alien. I have watched them riding high on stormy Georges — seen them on quiet waters and more than once surprised them on shore taking a sun bath but never with any sense of intimacy.

They are themselves — wild, untamed as their strange demoniac call. Even if they are feathered Mephistos, I envy them.