.
The Loons of Colby Lake
a true story
As thawing white gave way to budding green,
two loons upon the lake would mark the Spring,
and they would build their nest, then teach their young
how life was lived and how a song was sung.
The male was velvet black of flawless dye,
with spotted wings like a star-scattered sky.
Those burning eyes above his dagger beak
could stare away a hawk with just a peek.
The female wore a polka-dotted shawl
and diamond choker fitting for a ball.
Although she had the splendor of a queen,
she was maternal too and first to preen.
Once chicks were nested safe and fast asleep,
the lovestruck loons would slip out to the deep,
where moonlight streaked the inky water white,
and they’d entwine their necks each Summer night.
When starry leaves would rouge with Autumn’s rust,
we knew the loons would soon be leaving us
to disappear beyond the southern sky
as gusts caused golden hands to wave goodbye.
Come Spring, the pair of loons would reappear
to yodel on the lake year after year,
until their rearing days were gone and gray,
and moonlit waters seemed too far away.
We heard the gunshots out at Colby Lake
and found a lifeless loon there in the wake.
The male. His love looked on in disbelief,
as crimson eyes began to bleed of grief.
That Summer night, there was a single loon
on silver waters wailing at the moon.
Come Fall, no winds would whisk her on her way;
despite the shedding trees, she chose to stay.
Through her first snow, she shivered all alone,
and when the ice encased her watery home,
she pecked until some ice began to break,
then plunged and swam and swam and swam into the lake.
.
.
Michael Pietrack is a writer, businessman, and former baseball player who resides in Colorado.
The real story took place at Lake Colby in Upstate New York, but Lake Colby butchers the meter. My 93 year old aunt, Aunt Pat, told me the story of the loons. She spent every summer on Lake Colby. When she told me this story, I just about cried. Last week I showed her this poem and she said, “Yep,” which was the nicest thing she ever said to me!
Beautiful and poignant description of the passages of life as these are experienced on the non-human level by migratory birds. Particularly beautiful is the image of the two lovestruck loons “slipping out to the deep” and “entwining their necks” each Summer night by the light of the moon. The description of the female loon´s sense of grief at the loss of her mate– “wailing at the moon” then losing her sense of direction and her migatory instinct, remaining at the lake through the fall months, then “shivering all alone” in her ice-encased watery home through the bitter cold of winter, is truling touching. The theme reminded somewhat of Whitman´s poem “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking” in that it highlights the almost human-like emotions of loss and grief that are observable in the animal kingdom, creating a sense of empathy with the lower creatures as fellow sufferers in a world marked by death, separation, and loss. Very beautifully written.
Thank you! The feeling of being lost for a time is something I’ve seen in others who have lost spouses.
Such a sad story, but one beautifully told.
I love your work as well, so this is meaningful praise.
Such an elegant poem, so much charming imagery that adds to the story’s poignancy. Nice alliteration: ‘gone and gray,’ ‘lovestruck loons.’ Pushing out the last line to a hexameter with the repetition has a nice effect. Well done.
I appreciate this feedback, especially from you! I’m a Bensonite.
Yes, I am a Bensonite too! And I am particularly pleased that in an excellent poem like this he has singled out the hexameter in the final line: this really does resonate and create an even greater impact. I am reminded of Charles Causley’s technique in his poem The Forest of Tangle. It ends:
And he cried and he cried and he cried.
He cried and he cried and he cried and he cried,
He cried and he cried and he cried.
Repetition – particularly on this scale – can seem absurd, but actually as with Michael’s ending, it really packs a punch.
The simple repetitions can be so powerful – well done!
The fate of the loon in your poem is as poignant and hard-hitting as the fate of the swallow in Oscar Wilde’s fairy tale, The Happy Prince.
Thanks for the read, Michael.
I appreciate the comparison. I’ll have to read it…
Have a box of tissues handy.
I’ve just now read it and can see the comparisons. Thank you for telling me about it.
I had no idea that this piece’s jovial tone would become sorrowful by the end. Although quite obvious, I still would like to appreciate the neatness of this piece containing a seamless flow. The scenes are very delightful (of course except for the final three stanzas), as if coming to life. “Polka-dotted shawl” and “dagger beak” enrich the loons’ description. Enjoyed it fully. Thank you for this excellent work, Michael.
I really appreciate the feedback. I originally had the “we heard the gunshots” stanza at the beginning and then repeat where it is now.
This poem moved me more than any I have read before on this website. I have a thing for loons, having grown up in Minnesota. If you also have a thing for loons, you might like this non-classical poem I wrote long ago, based on an experience of a college friend of mine, who grew up on the Mesabi range.
THE BLESSING
I
A boy old enough to know better
went swimming buck-naked by day
all alone in a lake in the North of Minnesota.
Green reeds played over water orange with iron.
Farther out the water was cobalt blue
and very cold.
He swam underwater through the green reeds.
Slowly he surfaced among the green reeds.
Right there before him
on cobalt blue water
floated a Loon: calling out:
its wild notes ringing over the lake.
mysterious beautiful
only his eyes and nose above water
the boy made no sound.
He marveled to see the loon up so close –
Its quivering call burst bright on his brain:
drawing him drawing him into a spell –
deeper and deeper into the spell –
Then he snapped to with a shiver.
How had he not known?
The loon right before him –
was a Holy bird.
He gazed and marveled
He marveled and gazed
when the Loon caught sight of him
it vanished in the water:
leaving him transfixed with wonder –
his notion of the Wildness of life
suddenly expanding:
Just like the Rings
on the cobalt blue water …
mysterious beautiful
II
Even now in middle age
living, working in a city
with second wife and second mortgage –
if life becomes too serious
a Ripple will wash through him;
Cobalt blue water will bear up his soul.
Wild notes come ringing out over the water
mysterious beautiful
He will remember the Wildness of life.
Consenting to risk the Wildness of life,
he will know Joy.
Thanks for the kind words and for sharing your loon poem/story with me. I’m glad you have this memory to cling to and it brings you joy.
The unsuspecting murder of the male loon comes as quickly as a bullet. When the reader understands what has taken place. the reader feels much like the female loon does.
Murder is the right word in this case. That is the exact emotion I wanted the reader to have. Thanks for the feedback.
Line after beautiful line, Michael, this is a truly painterly poem. “When starry leaves would rouge with Autumn’s rust” is the one I find most notable. The tragic tale is well told within an outline description of how the species has its niche in nature. I’m glad you told us about Aunt Pat, or I would have wondered very much how this could be a true story. They may be loons, but the narrative is touching despite a desperate end. I would be horrified at a human suicide, but the overwhelming grief of the female bird, and what seems to be her instinctive final act, enhance the atmosphere you are creating here, without taking away the overall beauty of the narrative. A unique and most distinctive work.
Margaret, thank you so much for reading it and taking the time to comment. I’m glad the poem touched you, as the story touched me.
I’ve been trying my hand at haikus and wow, they are harder than I expected. As I was writing about the loons, it inspired a haiku that I’ll be submitting.
Thanks for all your contributions and kind comments.
This is a lovely narrative poem. Its language is ideal for narrative: descriptive, but direct and not overly lush. It tells a story as poignant as the loss of any human love. In that respect, it’s a model of the maxim “show, don’t tell.” You give essentially “just the facts ma’am,” but in so doing convey an emotional depth better than the most effusive language could.
Thank you for the kind feedback. I’ve appreciated your style as well.