I have been homesick lately. Not for any of the nine states, two countries and dozens of towns and cities in which I have lived, but for a particular sound. To remedy this, I have taken lately to lying on the floor in front of a small fan and listening to the sound of loon calls. The internet is a wonderful resource for such random needs. There are loons accompanied by rain and thunder; loons and campfire; loons and water lapping; loons and acoustic guitar—in short—there is enough demand out there for loon-based background noise that I have a playlist nearly twenty hours long dedicated to the aquatic birds. If you have never heard the loon’s call, you will have no idea how particular it is, in the same way that cranes and storks have decidedly distinct vocals. If you do know the sound of the loon, you may be concerned—why would anyone want to spend hours a day listening to so strange and haunting a chorus? Or, perhaps, if you know the loon and share a kindred love of the outdoors, and have spent time among the lakes of the north, you will find their voices a comfort—you too will be reminded of the summers of your youth, and will feel comforted—you will feel as if a dear friend whom you’ve not seen in ages has made an unexpected visit. If I had my copy of Margaret Atwood’s novel
Loon Voices in the Distance
Loon Voices in the Distance
Loon Voices in the Distance
I have been homesick lately. Not for any of the nine states, two countries and dozens of towns and cities in which I have lived, but for a particular sound. To remedy this, I have taken lately to lying on the floor in front of a small fan and listening to the sound of loon calls. The internet is a wonderful resource for such random needs. There are loons accompanied by rain and thunder; loons and campfire; loons and water lapping; loons and acoustic guitar—in short—there is enough demand out there for loon-based background noise that I have a playlist nearly twenty hours long dedicated to the aquatic birds. If you have never heard the loon’s call, you will have no idea how particular it is, in the same way that cranes and storks have decidedly distinct vocals. If you do know the sound of the loon, you may be concerned—why would anyone want to spend hours a day listening to so strange and haunting a chorus? Or, perhaps, if you know the loon and share a kindred love of the outdoors, and have spent time among the lakes of the north, you will find their voices a comfort—you too will be reminded of the summers of your youth, and will feel comforted—you will feel as if a dear friend whom you’ve not seen in ages has made an unexpected visit. If I had my copy of Margaret Atwood’s novel