Loons on a Maine Lake

Photo: (c) Joel Clement

When I was a young girl we went to a cabin

in Maine that belonged to Grandma Boo.

It sat beside a big lake. I don’t remember

its name, but it was summer and I caught

dragonfly larvae – big darners – that left

their thin-shelled bodies behind on the porch

screens and so I escorted them – blue and

green with wings – into the large world on

the palm of my hand.

They chose the sky for company, but return,

sometimes, alighting in memories.

At dusk, misty twilight, the boys  – teen or

maybe twentyish – next door skinny dipped,

diving in from the lip of their dock, swimming

to a pined island midway. I can still hear the

plunge – one, two.  The rawness fascinated

me, awoke something.

So, I started swimming then too, short strokes

around the edges of our dock and catfish came

to me, like a gift, nibbling my toes, swirling

– silky – between my dog-paddling legs. Catfish.

There was something magical about those fish

and I never once wanted to catch them.

But, this story is actually about loons and how

they cried and vanished, appeared some place

else, and vanished again, and how they did

this for hours.

Even as a little girl I knew that I was

seeing my life:

How I would vanish

and how I must learn

to use my voice before

I do.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion"

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