Early morning looking out across Whitefish Lake
Drinking my coffee to start my vacation day
One boat with fishermen casting about drifts by
Two kayaks paddle past going the other way.
The lake is quiet.
No motors, no wake.
Now I hear the call of the loon
Reaching across the lake.
Then I see the pair flying past
Big swimmer feet trailing behind
Calling so distinctively, a sound
I have not heard since childhood.
When we go out rowing around
We see them in the distance.
Binoculars confirm the neck ring
Before they dive and swim away.
Just now three popped up out there
In the middle of the lake
Though the power boats have arrived
Traveling down from Jones Falls locks.
They keep their distance
But they keep on living here
No matter that the engines roar
And water skiers rule the weekend afternoon.
These special birds are nearly gone
Chased from the New England lakes
Perhaps because their nests get drowned
In the wake of all the motorboats.
Perhaps it is the acid rain in New England
Killing the fish to cause their decline.
Why do these loons survive here in Ontario?
Such a happy surprise for me to find.
