Archive
08/22/09 - (1)
Loons and Crows
It's early a.m, this cool Saturday in late August, And one old patrician male loon I've seen here, for years, Gracefully glides, dives, resurfaces, forages, Between my cabin and Camp Nebagamon's back gate, Lets everyone know, for myriad miles around, With its echoing yodels, tremolos, hoots, and wails, That it alone owns the whole lake.
And who am I, On my morning exercise-walk around this slumberous town, Up and down its few main and side streets, To argue such presumptuous claims to suzerainty? Indeed, I'd be all for a hegemony of common loons Ruling over this community of a thousand souls, Satisfied to respect all the laws of the land it might set.
Soon, I come upon a dead maple tree, in an empty lot, Clotted with a black confederation of five ungainly crows Cawing raucously, vituperatively, Daring me to stop them from rifling a trash container. I can't miss the detritus they've strewn on the sidewalk: Ketchup, plastic cups, napkins, French fries. They seem to be plotting a takeover of the entire village.
For seconds, I ponder the implications of such plundering, Then continue undaunted, Realizing the rites of Lake Nebagamon's loons and crows Don't come under my purview, jurisdiction. They have a pressing responsibility to sustain themselves, Just as I do, on my strenuous walks, Feeding my body's, spirit's need to maintain, maintain.
08/22/09 - (1)
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