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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