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Lost Lake Road

It’s April
and a single sandhill crane
flies across my road.

Great blue herons
when they arrive
blow in like dark-blue smoke.
Their necks are bowed
as if recoiling
from the shock
of finding
Door County’s leafless spring.

But this sandhill’s aim
is arrow-straight
gliding down
to the stubble fields
where he stands to rest
like a stork after ceasing
a night of legendary labors.

When I walk upon this dry April ground
I stretch my arms out like wings
to balance my hope of May-warmth ahead
with my winters past that were full
of January’s ice.