Clear the Loon

This time of year Bar Harbor is a village town. No crowds haunt its streets and shops. A few restaurants are open. A couple of bars of course. Sunday at nine thirty at night the streets are deserted. Quiet. You can hear a pine needle drop.

Meanwhile Frenchman Bay is out there. During the day a few lobster boats pass by. The view from our room is for the most part wilderness and water. The empire’s frontier.

There’s a loon swimming in the water outside our balcony. The fresh water lakes have closed down and now he’s gone coastal. He dives beneath the water leaving a ripple of summer ponds and smoky skies. And then it’s November, straight-up, with winter for a chaser.

The sky above the bay is big and full of character. Yesterday there was something looking like a jet stream of clouds that rolled over Schoodic. There’s a multitude of skies out there, depending in what direction your eye wanders. Looking northwest today the sky is turning parfait blue. Southwards towards Egg Rock, clouds still dominate, although the eye of God is winking.

There’s healing going on here. I can feel it in my body. The soul can get physical sometimes, especially when it’s getting back on its feet. It stretches its arms the length of Frenchman Bay, horizon to horizon, and lets out a yawn like a loon call over a golden dawn.

Man, I needed this.