We move as wild birds, swiftly,
but not failing to stop and recoup
the vast expanse that clears above us-
the sky moving westward,
making room to hold in it
both full- one waning in its leftover gold
the other reclaiming its voluminosity
a strange concurrence of two lights
set upon the moving dome.
The spruce bearing its wood pines
among silent trees in a restless rustle-
as if mimicking the old whitewater
that runs miles below the
tremendous mountains, in a low, muffled harmonic
we gladly tune into;
and quaint birds chanting age-old
wind-age trapped in cracks of tree barks
and curvatures of stones that turn sharply
as we climb- they say the higher you climb
the deeper you go; the more you hear,
the more you know.
Lung ta prayer flags strung upon shiny mountain ridges,
call for a different breed of peace- five colours
dyed on thin cloth, for the mountains can be brutal
in the dearth of tincture and translucent winds often
call for revival in desperation- today, we are
coloured in them.
These bring you good fortune, daughter,
the Tibetan woman selling keychains
on the foot of the hill before we started, whispers
once more as the campfire dies down, the last light
gone, and we return to our lodgings.
We rest as wild birds at midnight
soundless, warm in our shelters nestling with
fine tea and good food, for we must sleep well
to wake up in time to taste the tangible rays
of golden light as they lay gentle and godlike
upon the massive rubble the earth is.
The small dreamcatcher hanging on
my hiking bag should keep us from
wayward nightmares from far beyond that come
hunting for paradise.
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