The Mountain Exhales

High in the mountains,

where the air thins into silence,

a lone monk walks the stone path

toward the waiting temple.

The sun sinks low,

a final ember sliding behind the peaks,

its fading warmth

brushing the edges of his robe.

He enters the wooden hall

with a bow to the empty space,

his footsteps soft

as falling dusk.

No audience,

no ritual more grand

than the closing of a door,

the settling of breath.

He lights a single lantern.

Its glow gathers the shadows,

cradles them gently,

and the day ends

without a sound.

In that quiet,

the mountain exhales—

and the monk,

simply being,

becomes part of the night.