Spirits walk along Huron’s shores.

Calm Caribbean winds creep in from spent hurricanes and mate with glacier icy stillness.

Don’t stop here.

The ghosts of shipwreck still trod upon the wet sand and are not bent by cathedral ceilings.

A full moon’s rays slice through the chaotic storms.

Do not stop here.

The serious mind believes a cause completed will release the memory of souls;

The memory of freshwater drowning and freshwater freeze.

Away in a town’s well-lighted streets, the tavern rings with music and speech.

The tiny cottage on the outskirts of a Great Lakes’ village is cozy with a fire in the hearth.

All know the tapping at the windows and the white bird’s wings at night.

The old priests still face the storm and gale to soften the parishioner’s flight.

Old traditions hold, but on Huron’s shore there is a breathed thankfulness

To die in one’s bed and not within Huron’s hold.