Artwork by Autumn Riddle
Elk Rapids
I was a feral teenager that summer. Hitched a ride to northern Michigan
with a friend. We moved in with two artists, a writer, a weaver, one van.
I was the youngest so I gathered wood for the open fire, hauled water
from the closest well. Made coffee and stew with sandy potatoes, rolled
cigarettes from loose tobacco, too. Got bored, got a job in a canning factory—
the cherry crop needed to be tended to. I spent my money on gas for the van,
filtered cigarettes within a cellophane wrap.
Hanging out on the beach one night with a couple of friends from town,
we lay on the sand and listened to the beat of the waves. One of the guys,
who must have been stoned, went swimming, kept yelling as he splashed,
"I'm a whale, I'm a whale." And a cop appeared, very politely asked, "Could
you tell your friend to keep it down? People live around here and someone's
called to complain about the noise." We said, "Yes, sir," because we'd been taught
to show deference to those who carry guns.
Then we closed our eyes, falling asleep as the water reached the shore for decades.
Small Animals
The wind cuts, knife-finned as I jog through the park. Snow geese startle from a reed-crested pond. The sun, enveloped, ignores a trinity of crows keeping counsel on a stone bench. The creek is up, and I am racing the day down, past a fading, circular trail under the rounded sky. It's already dark where groves of trees form intimate clusters like ancient gossips. Small animals burrow into this late winter afternoon— wait, night-bound for the moon.
