P O S T C A R D F R O M T I B E T

The plateau was white, the way cold things are white, and the cold was startling as it bit down to us. The bus windows rattled in their metal casements and drafts rushed in through every crack. I huddled around myself, watching as the contours of land began to show, sculpted in gold, greys, white, and shadow. As we passed through a shallow gorge I saw a long-eared rabbit at an icy stream. I imagined his footpads on the frost.

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