[ApS]

Just before sunset, all of Wolfeboro lost electric power. The closing darkness and approaching intensity had me turn my attention to the lake. Some distance away, I noticed a solitary loon riding the steep waves that announced the approaching thunderstorm. His behavior was noteworthy.

Unusual for a loon, he stretched up his head very high. As each wave approached—he'd part it—just like a boat laboring through heavy seas. But he used a little extra kick, as though he enjoyed doing it.

Twice he dove under the big waves, but only for a few seconds. He promptly returned to the surface—neck again outstretched. There was a great deal of rolling thunder and flashes of cloud-to-cloud lightning approaching—and he was looking directly into it all.

Twice he used the "threat" pose, but there was none of the "wailing call" that often follows humanity's loud booming noises and the private fireworks of weekends.

I lost sight of the loon when the rain started pelting the windows. The lightning and thunder moved in finally—and in fierce earnest.

Everything seemed "right" for this loon, just as though I'd witnessed a scene of his ancient predecessor from a million years ago.