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.
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