Deaf to the singing day, the Aerial Lift Bridge rings its bell. A steel girder curtain of sky rises. Power walking upstage from Lake Superior, Great Lakes boats and oceangoing ships promenade under the bridge and cymbal-ride into the harbor.

Shy as guys who trip up to girls to ask them to dance, green or red or white tugboats plod the bay to meet the vessels. Eyes lock and tighten like tow ropes. Apart but together, they navigate to where all hands say they must go. Seagulls solo and harmonize above a gyrating scene that drinks in an inland sea. Some birds hover and stare west at the hillside where Bob Dylan was born. Nodding, toe-tapping concert-goers flock before a bayfront stage. A tug or two throttles down by small crafts anchored along the rocky shore behind the stage.

“Why do you want to go there? You know all you’re gonna do is drink beer and listen to the music,” winks the one-eyed lighthouse.

“We just wanna wet our feathers and fly awhile,” they laugh like winds that only guitar necks know.

Deaf to the singing night, the Lift Bridge rings its bell. A steel girder curtain of sky falls.

Wiliam Tecku

Gordon