The big lake is out there, somewhere.
Just as below, where two rafts of barely visible coots ply open
water while they still can, as winter’s 1st ice shrouds the shore.
No matter that both are difficult to see.
Used to be, by dead of winter Superior was largely icebound.
As we know, now isn’t then.
But when arctic air crosses so much open water…
…life downwind best hold on and hang tight.
This particular winter most recalls the good old days of snow blind legend
& lore.
So forgive me if/when I repeat myself. The river of memory does run on.
One autumn when still quite young, I enthusiastically extolled the
Northwood’s many manifest virtues to an aged local, born & raised.
The old man listened patiently. Eventually, I ran out of steam.
Through eyes of clouded cataract blue, Albert Sailey gazed at me.
“Yep. Pretty nice,” he drawled.
Then paused to look the enthusiastic whippersnapper
up & down.
“Winter’s kinda long, though.”
Of course, he was right.
Ah, the hard-earned voice of experience.
