Mackinac 100

Dawn finds you, invisible lake,
though fog of last night’s storm
would deny your existence.
Like floating tufts of fur from
an old grey cat, slowly morning
thins your coat: a strand here,
a strand there, until small right
triangles emerge, hundreds of tiny
white flags waving in a line,
their thoughts bent entirely toward
that island,
and the hundreds of miles of water
and wind,
and the will needed to tame you.

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