The mornings of late have been cool enough for steam to form on the lake and in the lower wet pockets of the woods. It lays and shifts and rises, revealing the darker hills behind. The view is softened and as the sun rises the mist melts away like ice cream on the tongue.
This summer, it seems as though we've heard more loons calling than in years past. Most of them will stay around for another six weeks or so. Some hang on longer. I remember one very cold November morning a couple years ago. As the moon was setting and the sun wasn't even close to rising, Paul and I were sitting in the woods on opening day of deer season. The lonely wail of a loon had no trouble penetrating the leafless understory and reaching us. It is the latest I've ever heard a loon.