We are looking west and southward. From here the water has the color of dull stone and seems to extend without margin. Untroubled for this moment at least by any wind, its gray cannot be said to merge with the pewter sky. On the contrary, across its horizon shimmers a semblance of the ancient thin seam between firmament and the waters.
It is an illusion of course. Every bit of it—the unruffled water, the spectre of expanse, the procreative seam, the hour before night—is a spectre. We are at a lull point on the edge of North itself, where a latitudinal shadow of weariness traces itself upon the globe of our desires.
Frightened by the bleakness of the cold, great lake stretching from Marathon to Duluth before us, we hold hands. For the last hour at least, as if by instinct we have sought whatever warmth is left us to store against the long night. Hips brush as we make our way along the polished round stones of the beach. Arresting our progress along the shore we puff warm air into cupped fingers. We search the seam of water and sky for any light, whether an oar boat’s running lamps or evening star.
There is no light, and yet we think we hear something.