Postcard from Washington Island, Wisconsin
This sleepy island never rests, waves waves waves – International Harvester tractors rust in place, tall grass rising through dry axles, more trees here than wheat or potatoes – whitefish dinner, light and tender, the islander waitress, fat and sassy – at Fiddler’s Green Pub a piano sits on the front lawn, still in tune – only the moon lights the way after 9 p.m. – this island never wants, there is enough, 10,000 grandfathers casting nets.
on the beech leaf
the last raindrop
a sky too big