Thinking of a woman folding her map and looking up,
stretching a leg, stepping on a stone; I stop behind the dog.
Meet the eyes of a young Whitetail buck standing in sun-spotted shadow.
All week I’ve recalled a shallow forest pond.
Three inches deep. Sky and canopy reflected.
A bed of sand and pebbles. Some kind of wordless whisper.
How do we know which moments are sacred and which are mundane?