A slow fade to shadowed green,
as evening sun presses through
veins and fiber,
striking the surface at an angle
that recalls a mirror.
None of us have seen our own face—
a reflection of reality warped
by our shifting
sense of self.
Ego pulls at the yearning
for something beyond.
The west devours the source,
erasing the clean lines of day.
Beneath the weeping moon,
crickets call out,
their songs tracing time’s slow crawl,
as distant suns emerge
to share their light with our world.
This poem was written on the last night of a four-day, 40-mile backpacking trip through the Porcupine Mountains in Upper Michigan, as the sun set and the moon emerged over Mirror Lake.
The Truth About Tigers 
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