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A fragile machine,
built out of sticks and string,
projecting an image of coherence,
but it shakes if you touch the line.

A web in so many other webs,
beads of dew catching the sunlight,
silk strands catching the darkness.
Piecing together the world
out of each reflected image. 

The sky is glowing down on the trees,
and light wells in theatrical pools on the ground,
tangles in the branches of the bare trees,
transformed into green hope by persistent photosynthesis.

They waded across the creek,
into territory that was not their own,
the reflection, across the water,
imbued with the same magic.

Sun shining on stone,
there is nothing quite like it for affirming reality.
The water in the pool was surprisingly deep,
surprisingly black,
and oily with unkept secrets.
The water in the creek was surprisingly cold, and clear.
And we wandered.