The Racquette

Issue date: 2/26/10 Section: Creative Writing

Her cry is the first intrusion of my solitude. I stand unmoving on the small grains of sand. The crushed rocks of centuries move cold between my toes. The breeze plays on the surface of my skin, rippling my nerves at its very touch. I see the loon. She is gliding alone, so graceful that not even the lake cares to make a sound as she moves. It is as if the very nature that she inhabits fears her. The sound of her voice strikes stillness upon the night. The mournful echo of her presence only intensifies the emptiness that surrounds her. Her only company is the moon light on the lake. She will call. She will wait, just away from shore. She will swim alone, searching for her mate. His crushed wings are on the road behind the line of trees. She will not leave the place where they once sang a chorus in the night. Every glimmer of the moon entices her, the would-be reflection of light from his wet feathers. Yet, what is this moonlight but a game? It will always be beyond where she can go. She becomes frantic, screaming into the darkness. She yelps like a wounded dog. The vibrations of her pain travel up my legs. I am weak. I can feel it, the swelling, the tightening of the impending break. Sound wells up inside of me. My chest bursts and I too cry into the darkness. The ripples settle as she slips down into the depths of the lake. She leaves no imprint. Her call has long since traveled through the mountains and been swallowed by the night.

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