Fish Ladders

A sliver of a Michigan moon hooked low in a Tuesday night sky.  It anchored the darkness over the backdrop of less flown over fields still strange to me––I have only been in this city for 75 hours.  And haven’t yet mastered the streets. 


It felt oddly like autumn. 


And has the potential to be home. 


Beside me, a strange river flowed north before bending itself sharply west to reach the eastern edge of Lake Michigan.  I could hear the water rolling off the dam. And couldn’t help but to wonder if any fish were actually using the ladder to navigate the transition. 


There was no ladder provided for safety or convenience when shifting my own latitude––a move necessary to adjust my attitude.  Because I was dying down there in that Indiana town named for a “mad” field commander. 


Despite the lack of tangible support, or even modest forethought, I simply stepped off the cliff and tumbled across the state line in a truck full of typewriters.  I just had to trust that the universe would provide for me since the tens of dollars I managed to bring north probably won’t stretch very far. 


But, it’s the beginning of a grand adventure inside the palm of a mitten state.  Probably the last true ridiculous thing I’ll ever get to do in this life––and I’m going to make it fucking count.  Because if things go according to plan, soon I will find myself in the position of being a role model. 


And role models aren’t supposed to get nighttime drunk sitting beside dams in a strange new city. 


But, that’s tomorrow’s problem. 


For now, there’s enough tobacco to see me through until the sun comes up.   And I’m in the same city that holds my heart––we may not yet be in the same room, but we are in the same city.   And that’s progress. 


Sometimes, there just isn’t a ladder big enough to make it easy to see the neighbor.  So the only choice left is to do it the hard way. 


And, it will be hard.


But, she’s always been worth it.


About Typewriter Fox, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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