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HE IS AT FIRST A DISTANT WAVE, THE WAKE-wedge of a loon as it surfaces. The day is cold and gray as a stone. In the mid-distance the swimmer splits into parts, smoothly angled arms and a matte black head. Twenty feet from the dock he dips below the water and comes up a moment later at the ladder, blowing like a whale.
GRIEF IS becoming a stranger to oneself.
