All Souls, in Morning Fog

At dawn a clammy silence wraps the ridge.
Before he makes his tea, the hermit hikes
Through grounded cloud to the summit, the very edge
Of the world. Before him, nothing. The hidden creek’s
Wind-noise speaks to him from the rising whiteness.
A hawk skirls and hangs where the sky clears.
Morning leans through the tatters. The frugal tightness
Clutching his heart relaxes. He’s coughed till tears
Stung in his nose. Breathing, he feels all right.
If he dies on this ridge today — well, where else
Had he proposed to die? A shadow in flight,
The hawk slips into cloud. His rackety pulse
Sounds in his ears, a footfall. Beneath him, everywhere,
Hollows exhale their ghosts. He breathes that air.