This morning, while I looked out at the tree-line and listened to a bird-song, I was reminded of Mackinaw in early morning.  There is something still wild in the wilderness up there.  An unbridled, stormy, playful spirit alive in the crisp air and glacial paths and in the frigid waters curling up around Waugoshance Point.  

In the summer, my grandfather used to take me out to the field behind the house and together, we picked wild strawberries.  They were tiny strawberries, but remarkably sweet.  Tiny white blooms, lichens and moss, new sprigs of grass shooting up from between them and the soft pebbles left by rabbits.  Often, pressed into the thin soil; the imprint of a deer’s cloven hoof. 

My favorite sound was the shrill call of Jays in the morning.  Or while camping near the water, the roar of waves as evening fell.  But always, nearly always, there was a song sung by nature to behold.  

And occasionally, I am reminded of those wild notes of Mackinac and the songs sung on the mainland, the rush of the straights beneath the gently swaying bridge, the spray of water in sunlight as a ship crests a wave and I feel the urge to hop in the car and drive north.