It begins with runs
along icy trails around
the Chain of Lakes.
I capture shifting views
of two bird sanctuaries
in the center of Lake of the Isles.

A beach walk at civil twilight
on Mother’s Day with a friend
I’ve known more than 40 years
reveals a seam
of shadowy dunes on one
of the Outer Banks’ barrier islands.

Almost losing my own mother
a month later,
I now mail her
a letter every Sunday
so she can build her own holm
of endangered species stamps:

from the Nashville crayfish,
piping plover, Mississippi
sandhill crane, and Key Largo cotton
mouse to the black-footed ferret,
golden-cheeked warbler, and
Florida panther. Speaking of large cats

(not the big roaring kind),
a cougar roams city neighborhoods
after dark in search of a territory island
to call his own. He barely makes it
through the Quaking Bog before
a violent encounter with an SUV ends it all.

Summer is for logging 40,000 steps
down and up the island among islands:
New York City. Side bar trips
to Roosevelt Island and Little Island
and an island of true song
created by Son Volt

one jubilant July evening
with the same friend I accompanied
to their first show
at the 7th Street Entry.
Every song on Trace perfect today
as it was in 1995.

A second trip to Cleveland
is for celebration only
when my niece weds her soul mate,
filling an old barn
to the brim
with their own island of love.

A quick stay in DC to explore AI
and not one island in sight,
authentic or not. The year passes
without a chance to visit my first island.
And I know the Vineyard
isn’t going anywhere.

Turning 60 requires its own
accumulation of rocks
and other fluvial
sediment. I mark the moment
by playing hooky from daily life.
I spend a night

at the Nicollet Island Inn,
so I can wake up on one
of the few inhabited islands
in the Mississippi River, once
a sacred Dakota birthing place.
I look out the window

to watch the river channel flow
beside a bank covered in
freshly fallen snow. I walk
the full circumference
of the island as a tourist
in my own town just for a day.

As I wait for a freight train
to pass, temporarily severing
the northern tip from the rest
of the island, I remember
no matter what else happens
“the rhythm of the river will remain.”

Note: The poem ends with a line from Jay Farrar’s song “Live Free.”