At night
the mountain let out
a long, thin breath,
as though it had been holding it
all day.

The dark below us
had never seemed
so bright.

That breath moved
along the ridge,
sifting memory and stone—
the backbone of the mountain,
the valleys
under my feet,
all passed through
an unseen sieve.

Beside me
my wife said
this was the first time
since our wedding
we had sat
so close.

And what dims
the center of my sight—
is it only mist,
or something
older,
passing through us
as it goes?

—Yoon Tae-Hun, August 14, 1998