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.