Beyond, towards the Licchavi hills,
smoke the colour of wolves loops
along a quiet ridge. The sky is perfect
for flutes, voices keeping clear pitch,
a koel calling through dew-charged air.
I sit, settling into my breath, thoughts
calming, heightening distant plateaux
of dust, and the angle of the southward
opening plain. The first vulture circles,
swoops, rides another dusty current.
I hear distant tinkling, bells on greasy
slopes, women readying tea behind
faint glass. The last stars are gone,
the whitewashed moon; and from
the valley, calf-notes pure as breath
blown from sheoga wood. I smile -
smile again, because even this dusty,
yellow valley seems a basin awash
with gangetic benediction. Not yet
am I a sorrowful man. Not yet. A koel
calls again from a silvery eastern sky.