Indian Summer in Michigan

Wind blows from the south and the north, the fall flower stands still.
Semi trucks over saw dust up broken fire escapes, black cats behind the city. The power lines are always forgotten.
Windmill hammered down and put together, when up they spin, when up they look like robots.
Bright lights pass down the road behind you, the Indian Summer, the rain is over.
Warm air around these parts, when will you leave?
Echoes of rocks dancing tides, clouds loom, you can almost touch them.
Shaking poles without flag held up with piles of rock. You jump over to an abandoned dock, and as if a bird you sit on part of the land that has fallen away from the rest.
Alone. Old docks. Everything is falling into the lake.

The wind isn’t cold; the wind from the north, from the south, October is silent.
Trees grow and trees die, branches broke and shadows at your feet,  the sounds of boats above water, and the lake has evaporated.
The city is here, and you are north, the north of it all.

Silent, alone. Stable with the wind.

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