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86 Neither the Season, Nor the Place Lake Santee,S.C. Some mornings I mutter down the hallway of our marriage and open the only available door. But once in a while, say on a warm January morning, I ride out with him on the smooth lake of it, our small boat in the midst of quivering loons, the soprano of their notes—not calls, really, but soft barkings—reaching out into the air like questions that reorder the day. In these high-pitched tones of small dogs, the loons sound wounded, but they’re not: they drift on the honey-sweet water, unfettered and safe in their wintering.We watch one bob and dive, and just when we’re distracted, it resurfaces a few feet from us, a white-breasted surprise. Another and then another loon rises in place, stretches its thick neck, flapping its wings, and shakes off a shiver of water.They appear and disappear.Around us their quiet yelping, the rising and diving—our boat rocking occasionally in another boat’s wake.Their bodies glide in a slate cloak of understatement, not the black-and-white plumage they’re known for, their bright-checkered beauty—this being neither the season, nor the place. ...

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