The mountain waits in the quiet dawn,
its shoulders wrapped in mist.
Nothing rushes its patience.
Stone knows the long rhythm of light.
Fog drifts along its ridges,
soft as breath over sleeping earth.
The forest below is hidden,
the sky above only a pale suggestion.
Still the mountain does not strain
to see the morning.
It stands as it always has—
rooted in silence,
content with the unseen.
Slowly the mist begins to loosen,
thin threads of light
finding their way through.
Tree by tree the world returns,
ridge by ridge the day awakens.
But the mountain has not changed.
It was already here,
already whole,
long before the sun
remembered to rise.
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