the grand old man of paro

having stumbled down the slopes of taktsang, the air's a little thicker. from the log cabin's chimney the smell of thukpa and wai wai hold out a steaming promise of a well-deserved meal. beer bottle caps pop in the background. a prayer wheel on a mountain stream measures its every runaround with a peal from a centuries old bell. a hundred birds hurry home and the furry black dog paws the soft earth hidden away under a throw of pine cones. and the woodcutter marks time with his axe. in slow arcs his old weak arms work a fallen log. an unfailing rhythm. the wind blows taktsang's holy dust into the many folds of his face. his handmedown jacket flutters in surrender to the evening chill. little chunks of pine fly off into the sky. he stops for one moment. time stops with him. all of time is slave to this weather beaten woodcutter in a handmedown, by the thukpa, wai wai log cabin. and when he smiles, the world smiles with him. for he is the grand old man of paro.