Where the Eagle Flies

Before dawn speaks,

the mountains already stand.

Mist drifts through pine and stone,

soft as a thought half-formed,

hiding what was never lost.

The valley tries to name them:

ridge, summit, distance, sky.

Its echoes return empty.

The scholar measures the silence,

counts the folds of shadow,

reasons where the eagle flies.

Yet when morning warms the slopes,

the mist rises without argument,

and no debate remains.

Peak after peak appears,

not explained,

not persuaded,

not improved by speech.

So too the highest truth:

before the tongue moves, it is whole.

After the tongue moves, it is mist again.

Stand still.

Let the sun do its work.