and what of the Limpkin, roaming (or perhaps looming) in Little Bay Lake.
Long skinny legs that seem to creep through shallow waters in stooping steps. An almost equally long beak perfect for nosing at the Apple Snails it seeks. What of it, and its light spotted brown and white feathers and round torso, crying out its unmistakable call, persistently. It echoes between the strangely arranged houses that surround its home.
I’ve often pictured a frustrated resident, attempting to sleep against the Limpkin’s cry. Would they ever hurt it? I wonder. If they did, would they do so knowing it’s somewhat rare, to have a Limpkin in your lake? Always in solitude, always searching.
In the early mornings, when I’m up during the hours it feels as if I am utterly alone (except for my dog, who nestles deeply in my lap), I hear the Limpkin, loud and distinct. Sometimes it rattles and chokes and clicks. Sometimes it’s sharp and high, but ends with a fade-out effect, like a sigh. I expect it so often that when it is not there, I feel as though something is missing on Little Bay Lake.
Thoughts?