goldenlangur Posted May 7, 2009 Share Posted May 7, 2009 A Meeting. A gaunt figure, head bent and face obscured, limps through the withering grass at the edge of the field. I don’t know why I think it’s a he. The measured stride seems to suggest, on the one hand, a certain sense of purpose, and on the other, a hesitance. Is it the wind that propelled him here? Where is he bound for, through our overgrown land? And why does he keep his arms by the sides, as if he dare not breathe with each tread? Against the bobbing branches of the old cypress, he is like an apparition dropped from the belly of the rain-laden clouds. Is it the failing light or is his frame elongating with each step he takes? I’m not sure what I should say when we come face to face. Suddenly a white Apsoo crashes through the shrubs. I bend to pat it: ‘Is this your dog?’ I know even before I look up he is gone. 21.11.08 goldenlangur Quote goldenlangur Even a single enemy is too many and a thousand friends too few - Bhutanese saying. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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