
a field of flames
dance in rows of butter lamps
in the dark temple

a field of flames
dance in rows of butter lamps
in the dark temple

mountain magpie
flits from post to post,
skirting our camp




fringed by clouds,
the valley sat under blue —
but not for long



the cattle afar
turn sharp eyes upon me,
and i know they’re wild

rounding the temple,
heard: faintly squeaking wheels;
seen: not a soul


monochrome moth,
but for its yellow cape,
looks pencil drawn
