- Bill limits automated license plate readers
- Private uni’s subject to FOIA says House
- Guest Commentary: Earth Day or April Fools Day?
- State Roundup: Concerns raised about proposed change in DUI pot standard
- Bill would decrease pot penalties; small amounts would draw only ticket, fine
- Senate votes to restore human service cuts; bill moves to House for consideration
- Bill to restrict red light cameras passes House
- State Roundup: Budget fix in current FY not yet done
- State Roundup: GOMB Director won’t support borrowing
- Economists: pros, cons to raising the state fuel tax
The Writers Garret
The Writers Garret
By Christine Swanberg, Author and Poet
This summers Writers Garret will feature the winners and honorable mentions from the 2003 Rock River Poetry Contest as well as a literary column. During the summer, the column will feature a literary retrospective of Door County, where many local people spend their summer vacations. This feature will contain some poetry written about Door County along with selected memoirs from this writers point of view. The first entry in this summer series is the following poem, At Cana Cove. Cana Cove is an enchanted stretch of beach and woods along the Lake Michigan shore on the east side of Door County. Cana Island Lighthouse, accessible by foot if the water is low enough, juts out into the water, making this area remarkably beautiful. The trick is: You have to find it by going down some rustic roads. It isnt easy to find, and many people who travel to Door County never do find it. I consider it part of Hidden Door County, where there are no T-shirt shops or sprawling tourist attractions. It is so wonderful, you will have to find it on your own.
At Cana Cove
Door County, Wisconsin
Today the May sun surprises
Like a long-distance phone call
From a friend gone too long,
And all day the lady fingers
Of Lake Michigan massage the rocks.
Mergansers ride the waves
Off Cana Island Lighthouse,
That bright white beacon beckoning
Me back year after year.
At dusk I walked the cove again,
A private ritual of silence sliced
By a gulls cry.
A lullaby of lapping waves.
Then a fox
Jogging along road shoulders,
Stopping beneath a pine.
Its ears perk up, its fur glistening
In the Nordic moon rising
From that softest pink horizon
We connoisseurs of dusk
Know is strictly Door.
Then a buck
Drinking from the lake, his hooves
A shadow on precarious rocks,
So vulnerable. So bold.