After that first start there is no sign of awkwardness. His short
wings rise and fall with a rapidity that tries the eye to follow, like
the rush of a coot down wind to decoys. You can hear the swift, strong
beat of them, far over your head, when he is not calling. His flight
is very rapid, very even, and often at enormous altitudes. But when he
wants to come down he always gets frightened, thinking of his short
wings, and how high he is, and how fast he is going. On the ocean, in
winter, where he has all the room he wants, he sometimes comes down in
a great incline, miles long, and plunges through and over a dozen
waves, like a dolphin, before he can stop. But where the lake is
small, and he cannot come down that way, he has a dizzy time of it.
Once, on a little lake in September, I used to watch for hours to get
a sight of the process. Twelve or fifteen loons were gathered there,
holding high carnival. They called down every migrating loon that
passed that way; their numbers increased daily.
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