Ships graze on Lake Superior, as cool breezes
push columns of smoke up the hills of Duluth
into the choir-boy clouds.
The sun flows, as if the gulls are dragging it slowly upward
to warm the waves of air blowing through my shirt.
Wind that curves from behind carries sounds of dogs from below
and circles around my feet, carrying the sounds back down.
Drifting with the currents, watching them disappear
over the edges and down the dry clay slopes
past every sleeping, rusted automobile and patch of wild daisies
to rest in a swirl of leaves in the dew on the road,
where the wet sun, dipping out of the lake,
has just begun to send shadows of long, thin grass.