No Urgency

 

Dawn stirs behind the peaks,

a faint gold whisper

through thinning mist.

Birdsong trembles into being,

branches shake off sleep,

and the valley remembers itself.

The fog loosens its hold—

first soft strands,

then wide breaths of air

revealing stone, pine, and sky.

On the ridge,

the temple waits without intention,

its silhouette returning

one line at a time.

No urgency,

no claim of importance—

just wood, tile, shadow, light,

participating in the morning

as naturally as moss on rock.

In the grand sweep of stars

and turning galaxies,

it is a speck—

and perfectly so.

For in this vastness,

nothing is small,

nothing is great,

and the dawn unfolds

exactly as it should.