Flags at the Pass

The pass has a cairn, a mast, and prayer flags radiating in every direction like the rigging of a ship sailing entirely on wind and intention. Faded generations underneath, fresh strings on top, khata scarves knotted to the stones. The wind was operating at full liturgical capacity, which is the point: every flap is a recitation, and up here the reciting never stops.

I stood off to the side with my hands in my pockets and let it run. Last September on the plateau further west I learned what altitude does to attention, how it strips it down to essentials. Same lesson here, refresher course: sky, stone, cloth, wind, one small woman in a creased down jacket being a minor and temporary parishioner.

Yan added a stone to the cairn with the casual precision of habit. I added one too, slightly self-conscious, entirely glad. Some rituals accept amateurs. The best ones are made of nothing else.