In Waves

I am sitting on fossilized ferns that are trapped for the next several million years in grey stone; sandstone, flint, and shale are jumbled in immense chunks, now shaped by the force of the lake and the cycle of freezing and thawing.  Pushed by water, scored and cracked apart by climate, the sedimentary layers become part of the basin.  Hauled from who knows what quarry, these monuments were placed to stop the erosion of the shore, or at least slow it down.  The currents and waves have been tamed by banks of riprap and man-made constructs forming a harbor for ships, rather than allowing this rough, shallow lake to crack open wooden hulls and ship masts during a gale.  There is a contract online stating how much and what size rock was purchased, who dredged, and who poured concrete.

The lake and harbor are flat today, no swells or roiling foam; there is a pleasantly fishy smell being brought to shore by a warm autumn breeze.  Horsetails in the sky claim precipitation in 24 hours, the small ripples of the lake dabbing absentmindedly at the rocks say they don't know of any rains coming from the west.  Only when a motorboat goes by do the small waves make a half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm.

To the west is another gouge where glaciers pushed and pulled back and forth over eons; it's why there aren't any dinosaur fossils laying around.  The beasts were here, but the glaciers pushed them south as they scraped the layers away down to the Devonian age, as if a great, white hand cleared the table of evidence.  Lake Michigan is deeper, larger, and has produced an amazing amount of silica quartz sand, which continues to deposit as freshwater sand dunes on its eastern shore.

I lived in Chicago for a while, on the western side of the lake, and there is sand, but it is also decorated with colorful displays of rounded stone; pinks, dull reds, green, white, blue, black, ochre.  There are still some in a basket, as I lived hardly two blocks from the water, yet didn't pay much attention to the lake itself as life was too complicated for much beyond the city.  This year, the few days spent at the eastern shore showed me waves generated by coming storms and sand flung across the road up to the homes, bordered by scrub grass clinging to hope.

We had gone for a drive, and in the dimness of near midnight the froth of the waves rolled in, visible in the cast-off light of lamps.  High waves drummed the beach, cascading and falling forward, dashing themselves upon the sand in furious rows.  The atomicity of the first wave was reconstructed by the next, displaying a natural consistency in isolation of each movement, forming a durable engine of sand delivery.  Pushing, forming, depositing the rounded granules of silica and the tiny tiny shells of  freshwater mollusks, the waves were an insistent force pounding the shore, their voice a thrashing heart plummeting over and over.  It was a lovely example of a natural power.

There was a translucent layer of snow in the southern tier this morning, signaling the inevitable change to a darker season; a trip to the Farmer's Market yesterday was filled with people buying bushels of squash and apples, the last corn, the last tomatoes.  Laying in for winter.  As I sat on the rocks today, ladybugs flitted about, landing on my jacket and stretching wings; they'll be searching for a winter haven soon.  Time pulls them forward, as it does me and you.  Sleep well, warm heart.