User Review( votes)
written by: Grant Watson
It appears so much larger at night,
An opened mouth at the tip
Of my child’s feet as he
Skims flattened stones before bed
And shouts out our names across
The thick, dark peaks
Of its incoming tide.
I lead him to where we’ve camped -
You at a gas stove cooking fish
At the curling wooded slats. And
Somewhere from its soft and
I’m sure I hear the lake call back.