One summer night,

Walking with my father,

My small hand in his. . .

I looked at the moon,

Full and mysterious.

The moon's light spilled

Into the summer sky,

A shimmering, silent, transparent sheen.

Looking at the moon,

I saw it matched our movement,

Stride for stride.

"Look, Dad,

The moon is following us!"

He laughed

As though prompted by some past encounter,

"Maybe we are the followers."

In the moonlight of that evening,

We recognized a connection

To shared mysteries

Where answers to ourselves

Lay in some shared journey

Begun in moonlight long ago.