A distant loon crys its haunting melody. Like the wolf's howel, the wail evokes an innate response but not one of fear, rather one of recognition.
Most of the time the loon swims, in their small nuclear family. Often submerging for minutes at a time to reappear somewhere, unexpectedly yards away and general with a small fish its beek to feed to its young.
I'm close to these ancient creatures. Loners who prefer their small family unit over a crowd of boisterous crows.
These stoic passengers through life prefer the quite waters of a pond over the busy turmoil of the sea.
But in the winter, when the water retreats beneath the ice, the loons move on. I've seen them in the ocean, but perhaps they migrate even further. But I've never heard a loon's cry when it isn't serenely swimming on the surface of an idyllic lake.
One just called out to me. I am very close to loons.
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