By Bod Bradshaw

Our legs gone, we have climbed
for hours behind a flatulent donkey.
The path snakes along a canyon wall,
disappears into a thick fog
of snowy air.  When it clears
a yak stares back at us
from the middle of the road,
a border guard
not to be taken lightly.
Steam rises from his nostrils,
clings to his woolly layers.
Our matted hair
and heavy robes tell him
that we are brothers.
Slowly he drifts away
as a stone kicked up
by our donkey splashes
into the Yalung

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Filed under Issue 5: The Far East, Poetry

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