Breathe In

The mist is rising, as if the wind is a warm breath from the earth. A man rests atop an earthy stage. His legs ache and the light is gold and gray for all to see. The world belongs to us, they say, but he sees now his smallness; his walking stick dawdles behind his feet as if he cannot find the courage to present himself to the old mountains that wait patiently to give his quiet verdict. I cannot follow. The trees are waving to me and to themselves and the world they serve. They are not in an uproar. They are simply stretching, quiet as they groan and ask about the night. I cannot follow you now into the mist. They do not even see him; he is lost amid the ghostly dance of distance. But he, for all his hard shoes and fine half-coats, is still a part of it. You can see it in the messy flame of his hair. He will conquer, or he will serve. He lacks the balance for both. Either way, he will leave on the next pass of rushing air.