The Lakes

The Iroquois, the Ottawa, the Potawatomi, the Crow, The Lakota, the Chippewa; all dwelt by their shores And in their deep forests, but are there no more. Yet the Lakes remain; their waters abide. Clear and quiet they lie on calm summer days, But send ships to their bottoms when gales roar in their skies. The abyss of Superior, so cold and so dark, Holds tight to its secrets the Ojibway said, And the waters of Superior never gives up its dead. The waters of Michigan, not so cold nor so deep, Yet, like Superior, its secrets they keep. The waters of Huron I see in a dream Flowing over the ghosts of primordial streams, Past islands and trees, always south towards the sea. Receiving their waters, Erie, with skies luminescent, Sends them on crashing over the Escarpment. Then on through Ontario and the Saint Lawrence, Passing Quebec, passing great forests, They reach their goal, the wide gray Atlantic. Like great Superior, My secrets lie deep, my secrets lie cold. They lie in an abyss and will never be told. But there come to me times when I want just to go To that vast Ocean wide; To flow into the deep and there forever abide.