Ashland Shore and the Oredock

July, Beach in Ashland

by Lucy Tyrrell

Dark form wades under white banquet of clouds— spread over sand beach, ribbons of distant hills dappled blue-green like the lake. Hock deep, a bay gelding prances, touches gentle ripples with his tail. Barefoot rider astride without saddle wears chin-strapped helmet of metallic blue. Impatient hoof strikes; splashes reach her bare shoulder’s black-ink horse tattoo. She reins in, yet permits thrill of pawing sculpted lake, water-wet dazzle on inland sea horse, smiles timeless joy.

Indescribable

by Mary Louise Peters

day of cold gray dampness, so little to distinguish morning from afternoon, day from night.

Rain mingles with lake water, sand sifts slowly to the bottom.

Immeasurable progress emptying the river into the sea one dented teaspoon of forward motion after another.

Finally, light. A bird song.

August Fog at the Oredock

by Catherine Lange

Fog diffuses dawn. Awake, eyes alight, searching— Our path emerges.

The Age of Water Falling

by Howard Paap

Late March—we hear its roar. A waterfall in the time of the annual breakup—winter’s cold grip giving way.

We leave the footpath, carefully step into the unmarked snow amidst the trees, work our way down to its base, to our best vantage point. No one else ever sees it, comes to pay homage.

Our waterfall, my two dogs and I. A big one reaching high amidst the white cedar trees, naked hardwoods, but lasting only a handful of days, tumbling over Lake Superior Country’s snow-covered red sandstone. For a dozen minutes we stand at its foot, its thunderous up-close timpani drums overwhelming us.

The future for the rest of existence. The final merging with all, a last coming together as we flow out to sea.

In some lands deserts growing. Elsewhere, saltwater shorelines giving way, creeks becoming rivers, seaside cities receding. Others see it, birds on high, red-winged blackbirds in the wetlands. The Water Forms, the otters, muskrats and their neighbors know of the ongoing change—the future is underway, is now.

Our unnamed waterfall—the messenger sent ahead. Each March we go to it, witness what is to come. For only five or six days it is here—hidden in the leafless, white woods— where the little creek becomes much more. My dogs and I stand, letting the thunder, the music of water falling overcome us—take us on our way.

This nameless waterfall bespeaks of the future, the transcending union to come. Boundaries give way. Water—the final healer—carries us along. Our hidden waterfall, the fall no one photographs, loud in its pronouncement, achingly short in its tenure—a precursor of the great merging, the resplendent quietness to come.