Standing still as a statue she looks out over the
high barren steppe. Tibet is brown this time of year.
She seems not to notice as the wind blows
strands of long black hair across her face.

Her horse, a golden Arabian snorts softly and
nuzzles her neck, physically pushing her out of
her reverie. Placing a hand against the side of his
face she wonders aloud, “What do you know?”

Putting the palms of her hands together in front
of her breast she bows at the waist and says a
prayer. Pushing away desireous thoughts, her
Buddhist training rescuing her once again.

Grasping the horn of the saddle she lifts herself
in place. Leaning forward, she whispers softly to
the horse and slowly they move toward the horizen.
Horse and rider become one, and disappear.

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