The Loon

By: K.S. Night

A bird sits

On the clear, reflective surface

That is Seagull Lake.

It dips its black head,

Diving beneath the translucent waters,

Disturbing the perfection only briefly.

All is still, and the quiet

Sets in once more.

Then, with a soft splash,

The bird appears,

Resurfacing gently.

In its dark beak,

It holds something.

A tasty morsel

For the majestic animal.

Once the morsel has been eaten,

It lazily swims

Into the opaque waters.

It suddenly opens its wings

And begins to run

On top of the water.

Wings flapping madly,

Feet splashing wildly,

It pushes itself into flight,

Climbing into the sky with graceful ease.

It lets loose its unique call,

Echoing in the quiet.

For one moment,

Even the crickets are silent.

The loon,

Most beautiful of birds,

Has spoken.

Voicing its cries,

It flies over the waters

And disappears in the horizon.

The broken quiet continues,

Except for the crickets

That chirp in the reeds,

And the gentle lapping of water,

Against the shores

Of Seagull Lake.

Wednesday, August 9th, 2205

Seagull Lake, Minnesota

Canoe trip with my Grandfather