Rain falling through a strainer suspended above,
We call it mist or drizzle, depending on mood,
A gray floating mass settling, making boards appear
With the leavings of a passing timberwolf pack.
We hardly notice with bear scat up on the road
Or fetor of rots from creatures left by eagles
Hummingbirds buzz and squeak all day in the cedars
While we lunch on venison with deer drifting past
Unsuspecting final possibilities.
The grader ground its way past early this morning
Scraping gravel baby-butt-smooth for the clueless,
Who stop, hooting at us “Hey!” and we reply, “Straw!”
(This always draws odd looks) but never puts them off.
“This go to Grand Marais?” they persist in asking.
“Does if the road ain’t out, some sinkholes opened.”
“That a joke?” drivers ask, frowning and glaring hard.
“ I guess that will depend if its out tere or not.”
“Okay, how far if it’s open and clear? they probe.
Sixteen miles, if you don’t make a wrong turn en route.
“How far to go around the long way? They want to know.
“Ninety land miles, ain’t measured nautical.”
Most take the long safe way rather than run mall risks.
Pronunciations vary, Grand Marnier
From luxury car folks and Jeepers’ Grant Moraine.