Freshwater Literary Journal 2022

Paul Holler The Loon’s Return From the loon’s altitude, the land below him appeared as a net of rivers cast over a wide and featureless space. The loon followed the threads of the individual rivers, looking for one that would take him to a place he knew.

Aligning himself with a narrow thread, the loon descended with his feet behind him, holding his body at an angle to the surface he approached. But then he felt the hard surface of a paved road slamming into his chest. Dazed, he tucked in his wings, rolled like a log, and slipped off the pavement and onto the road’s gravel shoulder. For a moment he could not move. Then he kicked his feet back and forth, but with no water to push behind him, he could not move forward. With no water in which to remain buoyant, he could not stand up. His head, wings, and feet were free, but he remained unmoving, trapped.

Then he felt the footsteps of a man nearby. He cried out and tried to take to the air, but he could only spin in a wild circle. The man stopped before him and bent down, resting his hands on his knees. The loon cried out again, flapping his wings and kicking his feet. The man slipped out of his jacket and lowered himself to his hands and knees. The loon cried out again. The man lay flat on the ground and looked into the loon’s eyes. The loon cooed and tried to rise up but, failing, folded his wings by his side and tucked his feet beneath him.

With one long sweep of his arm, the man covered the loon with his jacket.

Then he got to his knees, swaddled the loon, and rose to his feet.

The man held the swaddled loon to his chest. In time, the road he walked faded to an unpaved trail. The footprints he left behind him were even and centered, forming a direct line between the road and the river that ran beside it.

The man walked in time with his heartbeat. The loon stopped his struggle and remained quiet within the jacket. Then the man’s pace slowed when he heard the chant of cicadas to the north. The wind carried their sound like the roar of waves crashing on a shoreline. The man’s breathing became a part of that chant and the loon moved to the rhythm of the wind, the cicadas, and the man’s footsteps.

When he came to the river, the man stopped and looked down at the loon, still tightly wrapped in his jacket and peering into the sky. Without losing his hold on the loon, the man bent down, untied his shoes, and kicked them off.

Then, with his free hand, he took off his socks and rolled up the cuffs of his pants. He waded into the river, unwrapped the jacket, and lifted the loon toward the sky. Then he set the loon gently on the water and watched him swim away and wash the road dirt from his indigo feathers.

The man stepped onto the river bank, sat down, and rested his feet on a large stone. After his feet had dried, he put on his socks and shoes and started 67