Recently, I dreamed of loons. Of their checkerboard backs and ruby-red eyes. Of their blade-like bills and lonely, haunting calls. I dreamed of boreal lakes too, cold and clear, where loons spend the summer months along with mink frogs and northern pike. I dreamed also of canoes and long days of stroking paddles through calm, glassy waters. I dreamed of moose standing belly-deep among bulrushes, of cold nights and campfires. But mostly I dreamed of loons.
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