The mountain does not wait
to be in the now.
It stands—
stone meeting sky
without hesitation.
The tree does not rehearse tomorrow.
Sap rises,
leaves open,
roots drink the unseen.
Morning fog parts
without agenda,
thinning where it thins,
lingering where it lingers.
None of them postpone their being.
None of them bargain with time.
Only humanity steps aside
from the moment,
chasing echoes,
waiting for doors
that were never closed.
The mountain remains.
The tree breathes.
The fog dissolves.
And the present—
wide as the horizon—
asks nothing
but to be entered.
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