The man who swam with the loons
by Glen Sorestad
[ poetry - may 10 ]
for Art Coelho
He was not even aware of them
until he found himself
very close in the water,
a pair of adults and one fledgling.
He became conscious of eyes
on his nudeness as he lay prone
in a float during the morning swim,
moving his hands and feet
as little as possible.
The loons simply appeared,
their eyes on an unusual
gleaming white body
slowly moving along the surface
like beaver handiwork –
a large, bark-peeled poplar,
moving to some distant purpose.
He was surprised to find them
inspecting his presence here,
not with the customary alarm
most creatures pay humans
for a host of good reasons.
To the loons he had become
a floating thing that bore
no outward sign of malice
and so could be tolerated,
if not accepted. In the water
he felt himself merge with them,
as he had merged with the lake,
into something unexpressed
but understood. Feathers grew
to enclose him, the webbing
between his toes filled in and he
felt his body's buoyancy lift him
from the water; and as his joy
rang from his lips, the trembling
trill resounded in the stillness.
