‘change will not come from above’ -Billy Bragg

Fishers in lamb’s wool caps
angle for dirigibles beneath winter ice.
The lake is a pastel roe, a killdeer’s pupil
caught by muscles with zebra stripes.

Erie is an oblong spoon of kale beds,
watercress woods, notches in the trunks
of municipal rubber trees.

In its sediment base geologists
trace a pidgin Dutch,
Haudenosaunee knots,
and what archaeologists call Quipu.

A Pelee boat casts anchor near one tributary’s
lip; its skipper pegging position at a midstream stone,
a lichen struck by Joseph Smith.

The great peace is a long submerged wall,
a wonderland where migrants run aground.
Locals say “escarpment,” locks, a grand soo,
build their gaggles with Pabst and laugh.

Fireworks in coffee,
a cup of joe, a single perch on Friday.
Sicilians from Verona, the local tour guide insists
(he is a Protestant).

Erie is the way.
Anglers listen to the International on wood panelled
shortwaves. Wait for their whitefish.