Saturday, August 5, 2017
Bluebird Fish Dinner #3
The silver grey scales
of the Whitefish I ate at the Bluebird Bar
matched the color of
the county road
I drove since Cadillac
leading up north through a sea of pines
to rent a cabin at the end
of a peninsula.
The day before my fresh water fish
swam beneath Lake Michigan white caps
under hard blue aurora skies
and popcorn clouds
its shimmering scales dazzled the sun for a moment
like the halo of a tilted Milky Way
I would watch that night
with a friend from Indiana
The Whitefish is a cold water fish
making me think
maybe the glaciers that carved these shores
and filed these lakes
not so long ago
would return like a neighborhood of angry fathers
to restore their defaced work
but not until I ate a few more summers of fish at the Bluebird Bar.
The green and grey Janice Sue
is moored at her dock on display at Fishtown,
There’s a yellow sea plane on the north lake
skimming the water moments before lifting into the air.
Nothing moves on the surface of the big lake
except ripples and rolling shadows.
At the Jolli-Lodge the bikes lie scattered over the lawn
as if they’d been struck by a shock wave.
Nearby under a forest green lamp sits a black Weber grill
closely tended by a white molded plastic lawn chair.
The white birches are resting
not like yesterday when they hissed and fizzed with their silver leaves.
Clouds move in as fog
on Good Harbor Bay
in the dark morning
before the farmers awake
More clouds spew from the nostrils of fisherman
like fire-breathing dragons
on the deck of the Joy
and then evaporate into the fog.