Winds rage round Rouge Hill Station.

Trees bend against the sky.

The ice-blue lake clings to the horizon like a giant tear

To see the sun begin his homeward ride.

The Mean

What one knows is what one thinks is so.
Only by deciphering principle amidst competing egos
Can one hope to act ethically
Spotting the moral mark like the archer aiming at the dazzling eye of the bull.

Only with eternal vigilance can one claim adherence to reality
Lest agitated by desire
We say a cat’s a lion,
A wolf’s a hound.

More poetry