He moves—the mountain tamped in fog,
the lake a blade laid flat and cold,
its ridge-line edged with ash and ferns
that scour the cut where water logs
its margins, where the light won’t hold.
Birds cross the sky in hooked returns;
their bodies score the water clean,
whose surface bends their angled forms,
catching daylight at the shoals:
stone to breath, breath to sheen—
he moves; the morning burns.