Weld Chronicles

(For the Weld Observer, long version; photo by Henry Blau, III)  “They’re ducks, Paul, not loons.” There were thirteen floating fowl in the water. “Loons come in singles or pairs.” I was a little too cocky. Paul stood in a dark swimsuit about thigh deep in the cold water at dawn.   His goggles were assembled on his head, and his body occasionally shuddered in the just-above-freezing mist rising from the lake. We did not expect to invite the chill by stalling our swim, but we like to give loons space and honor their territory. We respect their regal elegance, swimming skills, and powerful beaks. I peered intently over Paul’s shoulders, watching the large birds sitting low in the water, clearly displaying laddered backs, long distinctive beaks, pearl necklaces, and shiny smooth black heads.   They were motionless and silent. Paul had been correct; they were loons.   I was aghast. Thirteen? “Hey there,” I almost sang, speaking in words I use each year to greet the...