Lake Eire sits there like the reality it is. A fundamental, elemental, rock-bottom "there" that is so obvious it's invisible. Ho-hum it's the Lake. Who looks?
Maybe when I've slow biked (one gear) along the path from MLK Blvd to Burke Lakefront Airport, past urban fishing holes ten yards north of zooming I-90. Past rusty-gated E. 55th Street Marina and through the goose poop covering the grounds of the Cleveland Public Power building. Stopping for a corn dog, Faygo and chips with kid. But the water's significance far exceeds the attention span.
The Lake is there without really being here. For all the sacred power humankind ascribes to water, the fact that we live so close somehow feels so far away. At least within urbanized Northeast Ohio.
I have to remind myself to look, really try to look at it when I'm near it downtown or driving within view. When I do it looks damn good sitting there, sun or not, rain or snow, windy or still. But mostly it is reduced to something like white noise, ignored in favor of getting somewhere else, thinking about some situation or daydreaming sweet nothings.
When I remember the Lake there is a choice I can make. Take the longer Shoreway route home. Then I take a measure in. Spot boats. At the rise coming up on the 72nd Street exit there is a really good view. And it feels right to look.