Wings over Mackinac

Last rolls
of hay sink 
frost touched 
in the fields. 

White birches 
rehearse the bare clearings 
for winter, brown 
fades to gray. 

Ann spoke of dreams, 
a pause from the highway. 

As a girl, she dreamt 
of presents left in sleep 
that disappeared at dawn. 

She wrote notes 
to the tooth fairy wishing 
a great magic, asking 
for wings. 

In my life, I too
desire wings. Air clean 
on my face, swooping 
over the Straits, 

I wish to take in 
all the edges 
of my world. 

Skies clear of snow, 
I’ll rest low in the pines 
and fly south.



John Peter Beck