She built her nest on the sanded shore
of a small northern Wisconsin lake
named Timm's.
She swam and preened,
sang her loon song in early morning,
when she thought no one could hear
her aria to the dawn and to her eggs.
 
She floated the water hooded in black,
with the grace of a ballerina,
arching her neck in yoga-like movements,
her red eyes deciphering food
in the water's blueness.
 
Paddling toward shore, she stub-footed
her webbed feet to the sanctuary
of her children's home.
 
He was waiting there:
her mate, her husband of shared responsibility.
She relieved him of his care for hers.
 
Nestling down on those two eggs,
she warmed life,
awaited new voices,
their springtime opera in the north woods.


© by Marilyn Zelke Windau.
Used with the author's permission.