In the face of something as beautiful, as powerful, and ultimately as unknowable as Lake Superior, sometimes the only place to turn is poetry:
THE SINGING
SOMETIMES, I HEAR SINGING.
EARLY IN THE MORNING
WHEN THE MIST LIFTS AND WISPS ITS WAY
ACROSS THE BLUE-BLACK BACK OF THE WATER
OR LATE
WHEN THE LAKE ROLLS AND MOANS
BENEATH ITS STAR-STREWN BLANKETS
THIS LAKE HAS A VOICE.
IT’S IN THE WHISTLE OF AUTUMN WINGS ACROSS THE WATER
LOW AND SOFT AND GONE.
IT’S IN THE SUN-KISSED LIGHT OF SPRING
MELTING A WINTER’S ICE
DROP, BY DROP, BY DROP.
IT’S IN THE SUMMER WIND
STRUMMING THE WAVES
THE SLOW, REPEATING VERSE OF THE SURF.
THIS LAKE HAS A VOICE.
I HEARD IT MOST CLEARLY ONCE
CAMPED DEEP IN THE THROAT OF A CANYON
THAT BELLOWS ITS RIVER
STRAIGHT INTO THE LAKE
IN ONE SWIFT LEAP … SSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
IT’S ONLY THE SOUND OF THE WATERFALLS
THEY TOLD ME.
OF COURSE IT IS,
I SAID
AND DIDN’T BELIEVE THEM.
THERE IS NO NEED TO BELIEVE ONLY THE OBVIOUS
TO HEAR
ONLY THE SOUND OF WATER
WHERE THERE ARE
VOICES
SOFTLY SINGING.
— Jeff Rennicke