The years run into each other, stream to source. Lake Superior, awash with childhood fractals, holds us close, despite freezing over. It is the coldest of the great lakes. Every chill I’ve ever felt brings me back to its clear shores where I hunt 60 varieties of orchids. Symbiotes should be respected for durability and ingenuity. A seed that demands fungi to push growth edges.
When I arrive at the lake, I forget if I’m pursuing flower or the ghost of Nana. The lake has been known to not give up its dead. I don’t dare test the theory. Although, I’m tempted.
We’re approaching the lake, much like Objibways who arrived in 500 B.C. They claim Nanabijou, the spirit of the deep-sea water, protects the lake. We are coming from The Apostle Island sea caves, ancestral flint and stone. The road leading us there is full of icicle splinters. Someone is bound to touch one.
The lake is so crisp we hear it crack, then wheeze –we lean in as if it speaks. And it does, each one of us hears something different