Notes from a Himalayan Village

A constant hammer on wood and a distant conversation.
Two voices, two villages,
Separated by a river that scorns
The silence and floats into my ear
Through these razor winds.
There are no moons. No remorse.
Only imagination.
No balconies to get drunk and high, I
Sit here in the cold
Wishing crows good morning
As they sigh.
Time hangs on the edges of the mountain, white.
Something tells me: this is where I will always return.