At night the loons bend the water with their wings and land, becoming sudden boys and girls in boats with oars and thrumming needs. Their skin is surface tension. Their hearts are mad red eyes.
They beach on pebbles and walk foolishly into wasp territory. One or the other will break hands and run; some will even find each other. Their original companions will wait until the wasps sting them to bursting. They are, after all, only bags of water. They leave behind the delicate bones of birds.
The boats crack in the sun, and flake, and get their pictures taken.