It was tucked in a corner lawn, looking over the Mississippi River in St. Paul. No signs or guidance. It didn't seem to belong to the building over there. The lines were burned into steel, marched up a column of fish, swirled in mosaics. River of sorrows, river of migration.
"to fields of ice & northern lights"
"your dream can become real"
"to fields of ice & northern lights"
"your dream can become real"