Freighter's Foghorn On Mackinac Island

Awoken at 3:30 a.m. On Mackinac Island at the Grand Hotel By a freighter blowing its foghorn Like a calf half separated From its mother Bellowing out there somewhere Lost and meandering In the thick fog Stunned by the freezing May water. Up from bed Out to the balcony I felt for the iron side of the passing freighter Only to find The sticky wool of lamb Clutched to the fist of my hand. Every father has this instinct. Every mother becomes helpless. The baying fades away over 45 minutes Its cry shrinking through the shroud of cloud Over the Great Lakes Under the Mighty Mac On to Wisconsin perhaps The story like all stories always unfinished… I go back to bed and lie wide awake.