frog song

The night exhales a much appreciated coolness, as a dog barks in irritation or want on some dark, unseen street. Nepali and Tibetan voices struggle to rise above the frog song that pushes against the heavy sky. I feel a small sting on my leg and reach to itch it, then stop halfway, deciding it’s not worth it. A stranger bought me a slice of lemon meringue pie today—a traveller, another self-confessed nomad, except he has been to Buenos Aires and I have not. Our conversation floated from art to travel and back again, and a monkey hopped onto the balcony to nibble on a fuschia.

This day is over now. Over as quickly as it began— a blink, a passing thought. Growing new and older friendships. Sketching the Stupa in the rain. Eating thukpa with chili sauce.