Lake Superior II

If I am a body of water, I am this.
With its unreliable disposition. Its hush
and then sudden thrust that scatters.

And its north shore of heaped rock, both black and iron-red,
lichens like lace or appliqué, and the lode of milk trailing out and
out. And its heave, and frolic and suck. And its smooth stones and
beach with all its gradations: the grain and the pebble and the stone
and the rock and the boulder and the solid mass reaching out into
cold, clear water.

And its southern shore of sand and whitened driftwood, the water
battered silver. And then the clay breaking in hand, red and green
and orange. The jagged and the overhanging. The fragment
like an arrowhead, or the round stone grainy, never drying.