Birds, yes. Or something like them. Big, though.
Not natural flyers, gawky rising from water.
They're diver-swimmers instead, sleek submersibles
with Olympian speed, experts at instant vanishing.

The lake's occupier-owners, if they judge you harmless
they'll pose for close-up glimpses,
necks resplendent with ermine white and ebony rings,
feathered scallops on their flanks and backs.

Their chic appearance aside, it's easier to know them by calls:
lilting or tremulous, even hiccupy, teasing.
More often, you'll hear tenors, Pavarottis, who've made
the forest woodland their very own opera house.

Gavia immer—the bird's scientific label, a victim of
inept or lazy translation in English language bird guides
where this striking creature is dubbed: "common."

Common? Really? "Common," applied to a . . .
        l o o o O O O O n n n n ?


© by Richard Swanson.
Used with the author's permission.