4. Gladstone, Michigan to Port Ontario, New York
From the pine-scented northern shores,
sprinkled with seasonal hunting motels
where AC is an oscillating fan arranged
by a wedged open window;
to an idle day in Saint Ignace
and Main Street on Mackinac Island
immersed in tourists and tidy shops,
clean as a Disney theme-scape;
past Harbor Springs and Charlevoix,
reeling from excessive wealth,
to an evening dip in the shallows at dark
in the peace of Petoskey Park —
I love the big waters of Michigan
with orchards of cherries by
Grand Traverse Bay, but I leave
for the homes of old Huron,
the currents and eddies of River
St. Clair, which carry the freighters
to docks in Detroit and ferries
across into Chatham. I would
loiter once more through my time
in Ontario, idling past the pleasant
farms where shiny windmills slowly
spin an indolent summer breeze.
I’d embrace again the horizons
of Erie, lingering in a beach cafe
to watch an old couple watching
the waves, just passing their days
in the sun. I mark my hours by moving
on, by gray bluffs and hardy flowers
along an unassuming coast, where
weeds secure the shoreline. I glide
the shadows on Erie’s expanse as
meditation moves me east, shedding
thoughts with shifting views. The mist
precedes the thunder approaching Niagara
Falls where wonder is wrapped
in a rainbow, reflected in people
the world brings to me. I treasure
this stage of delightful days, each
in peaceful succession, each more
precious as they dwindle. Now I
move through a world of internal
cues and I move at my own deliberate
where I contemplate the evening glow
as purple drains through deepening
hues until at last the darkness soothes
and all is mere external. Now I go
with the peace of the fresh water seas
as my journey turns to interior hills
and hollows of old Appalachia.
previous: Lake Country
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