Campfire Reflections

Sitting alone,
Watching the embers of an evening fire die
With the northern wind coming across the lake,
My mind stirs deep reflections that surface slow,
Like bubbles waiting for the ice to melt.

I hear the calling of a cold owl,
The cry of distant wolves,
And the reluctant shift of tall timbers.
This is where I came from- the dry pine needles,
The patches of moss, and the campfire.

Twenty feet above,
Shadows are projected onto the pine trees
And glints of ash rise in circles until finally
Falling without illumination and becoming lost
To what is.