Wings over Mackinac

black hawk soaring
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