“GRAVEL PIT SKY”

She picked the flowers just days before—bright, wild things, placed gently into a bottle left behind by men who carved roads through the forest. She found it buried in the underbrush, a ghost of the logging days, thick with rust and memory.

That night, I carried it to the gravel pit, set it among the broken stone, and waited.

At first, the northern lights were nothing more than a soft breath—barely there, like something the sky was still deciding. But then, without warning, they opened up—ribbons and flame, dancing above the pine edge like a signal from another world.

The sky split quietly—no thunder, no storm—just light unraveling in waves of green and violet. Bare trees stood like watchers along the lake’s edge, their limbs thin and reaching, as if they remembered something older than wind.

Above them, the Big Dipper burned steady. Once, the Ojibwe told stories of this constellation: a great bear chased endlessly across the sky, hunted by three loyal brothers. In spring, the chase begins. By autumn, the bear bleeds—its crimson light painting the northern leaves. The aurora, they say, is the spirit of the bear rising, dancing, flaring its final fire against the dark.

And now, here we are—modern wanderers beneath the same myth, our silhouettes cut into ancient light. The trees still whisper. The stars still tell stories. And the bear still runs.

“The Keeper’s Light”

Once, this flame burned steady—its soft glow casting shadows across weathered hands and windowpanes. It sat by the sill every night, watching Clearwater Lake darken into mirror and mystery. Someone kept it lit. Someone waited beside it. Maybe a trapper. Maybe a widow. Maybe just a soul who couldn’t sleep without watching the water.

But now the lamp is empty. Its wick is cold. And yet—on this night of skyfire and silence—it feels as though the flame has moved skyward. The aurora dances where the smoke once curled. Light is still here, just no longer ours to tend.

The lake forgets nothing. The stars forget nothing. And maybe neither does the lamp.

“The Last Seat”

It faces west, just as it always has—toward the bay, the pines, and the slow hush of Clearwater Lake. The chair is empty now, but not forgotten. Once, it creaked beneath a man who knew this place by heart. He watched loons dive and clouds unravel. Counted stars. Nodded at passing moose like neighbors. Maybe he spoke to no one. Maybe he said everything without a word.

Now the sky burns green above the glassy water, and the rocking chair waits in silence. No hands grip its arms. No boots rest near its legs. But it holds memory in its curve—the kind of memory that flickers in starlight and lingers in wood grain.

He may be gone. But the wilderness he loved still shows up every night, just in case he returns to sit and watch the aurora one last time.

“Silhouette Three”

Cattails cut the sky—still and solemn against a curtain of drifting light. The aurora hums behind them, slow as breath, quiet as memory. These are not just plants. They are remnants of a time when the land was not just home, but provider.

For generations, the Anishinaabe gathered these reeds along the lakes—braiding mats for shelter, harvesting roots for food, stripping down fibers for bedding and insulation. Cattails were more than wild—they were wisdom, passed down from hand to hand, season to season.

And now, beneath a sky aflame with color, they stand again—witness to another night on the edge of history. Their silhouettes speak softly to the stars, remembering a world that never really vanished.