Blue Scarves at the Pass

Second pass, this time in sunshine, and I did the circuit again, a thin blue khadag over my palm the way the fuel station attendant showed me, entirely unbidden, when he saw where I was headed. Courtesy of high places: you announce yourself, you contribute, you continue.

The blue is the blue of the sky here, which is not the sky I know. It is higher and drier and more confident. The scarves are its earthbound delegation.

I am collecting passes now the way I once collected radio frequencies, each with its cairn, each cairn with its weathered congregation of blue. The Niva takes them in second gear, complaining honorably.