up in the snow mountain i found a little village of wooden huts, the single street winding through its center cobbled,
a few ducks shaking out their feathers, some oxen standing idle picking at clumps of grass, shrubs and flowers of a most
brilliant blue that when you picked them and rubbed their delicate petals between your fingertips gave off the sweet scent
of mint and lavender
there existed in that town a profound silence, such that even the lowing of the oxen was muted, like the voice of a man
hushed in a library, or the quiet sounds of conversation in a church
i rapped on the first door at the edges of the town, a door carved with the shapes of herons and smudged with a purple
dye. i remember that it reminded me powerfully of gypsy handiwork
a woman with bound hair leant out of her window to size me up, a pleasant sunburnt face, delicate crows feet around her
eyes which were azure and saturated with the soft greys of mountain water, her mouth soft, her cheeks eroded with laugh lines,
she spoke with the cheerful roughness of a farmer and when she seized my hand to shake it, i felt her palms hard with
callus, no stranger to hard work then i thought
when she welcomed me into her kitchen and urged me to warm myself before her clay stove, i found myself standing in
the presence of a man who seemed every bit as reclusive as she was extroverted. she did not introduce me, nor did he
stand up or give any indication that he noticed me, except to swing his heavy, deepset eyes across my feet and settle them
on his wifes form as she bustled around the stove to make tea in a great iron teapot
though he was tanned like leather, and wild haired, i could see that his hands were soft and delicate like a womans as
they lay nestled on his lap
that is my husband she said he dont talk much
how do you do sir, i said.
he made no answer but for a curious whistling sound like a wind blowing over a pane of glass
when she layed the clay mugs before us he lifted his tea and sipped it, smiled softly.
