The Loon

Not quite 4am when the rapture of being alive
strikes me from sleep, and I arise
from the comfortable bed and go
to another room, where the books are lined up
in their neat colourful rows. How
magical they are! I choose one
and open it. Soon
I have wandered in over the wave of words
to the temple of thought.
And then I hear, 
outside, over the actual waves, the small
perfect voice of the loon, He is also awake,
and with his heavy head uplifted, he calls out
to the fading moon, the pink flush
swelling in the east, that soon,
will become the long, reasonable day
Inside the house
it is still dark, except for the pool of lamplight
in which I am still sitting.
I do not close the book. 
Neither, for a long while, do I read on.
Mary Oliver

Not 4am thankfully but a reasonable time in the early afternoon. You might need to biggify, but there he is  - the Loon or Great White Northern Diver to use his full title. Always such a thrill to see him. He's not alone, there are a few others scattered in the bay but they obviously like their space. I am certain I heard one calling when I was in the garden the other day - its haunting cry traversing the fields that separate us from Kitchen Cove. This is what they sound like The come over from Alaska, Greenland or Iceland for their winter holidays and seem to be thriving.  I think I mentioned before that Finola, one time resident of Canada, does an excellent impersonation.