Muse, mountain, meditations.

Lunchtime in Erdenet:

Bruised bananas, apples, month-old watermelon seeds, 2.50pm at the apex of a modestly-sized mountain, bizarre tendrils of orange-pasteled rock outcropping, tattered Pico Iyer book in hand, right page shading the left from light, marginally north of town, vision opened up to the Himalayan-scaled copper mine to the east, economically flourishing but poisoning the sky locals pray to, beside me an ovoo breathing with the garish red blue and yellow of bedraggled prayer flags, a sudden whistle of wind, the glide-by of an eagle, its otherworldy squawk echoing echoing echoing, below us uninspiring biege tenements flaking, crumbling, destitute, loose grids of staid gers fringing them, a puff of dust in the distance rendered visible by the sun backdropping it, a furious squall of wind- no, a horse- no, a truncated truck whose engine I do not wish to hear and cannot quite yet.

Just sitting, gazing, nudging scree off the precipice I sit on, faithful old feet dangling freely beneath, listening closely to the big silence encompassing me, waiting unassumingly for the next move to occur, whatever that move may be, wherever it may take me.