flecks of memory
of the Khumbu in the high Himalaya

borne on a wind of rustling prayer flags
and bells around the necks of yaks

bridges washed away by forgotten monsoons

stone streets that double as streams

smoke filtering through a stone roof
that lacks a chimney

the sage-like smell of burning sunpati
present even when I blow my nose

animals grazing at the door of the tent

dung patties drying in the sun
across large boulders

a single cry from black crows
the only living creatures
at the top of the world

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