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

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