Khumjung, Nepal. Thanksgiving Day.
The dirty Tibetan trader, sack filled with market wares slung over his shoulder,
red braid weaved into beautiful long black hair, makes his way up the ancient
stone pathway. Both his origin and his destination are unknown to me as i stand in
the frigid early morning air, observing the high peaks surrounding this narrow valley
illuminated in the low morning sun. The brilliant whites of the towering snowfields;
the jagged, angular manifestations of this earth's crust, thrusting to the heavens, surround
my simple presence.
Last evening, watching the same sun make its way into the high horizons, it was flaming oranges that rang the day into night.
The Tibetan smiles a wide, white smile; and i return my own, no words, he is gone.
