Who is the hermit on the mountain? Are his sounds too light to hear?

The rustling of fabric, as he tends the fire—steady, short steps,

layered with the slight crunching of the duff forest floor beneath

the earth-kissed soles of his feet. Much like the soft sounds of the world’s once roar—

peppered, crackling, blended, yet so muffled and distant, now, seemingly nothing more

than the silence after a final soft snapping ember’s call as spent fuel to its flame.

It is early morning, still dark, and the sun will not rise for a long while. The coals will persist,

but only as a soft charcoal to find space, where a warm, healing heat was felt.

Last night, I heard his voice in the wind—may the breeze feed the soil for others

with all I care that lasts. When I went to see him today, only dry coals

and the reverberations received of his words in my mind remained of one more dusk.

I saw an unburned root near the fire’s edge, a new start, for an old way of living.

I thought of him—may the wiser wind stir the dust.