The stoned yogi

I sit. I stop. I stare. The air is heavy with humidity. Trees and brush flow around me. Heat emanates from the valley below—mountains like jagged teeth enveloped in vegetation. Studying the path traveled to get here, A single road leads. Motorbikes and vans zoom by. Taking in the shelter around me. Ladin with carvings from past travelers. References to people’s homeland, a lost love, a football club. Alone, A single stool sits. Observing the valley below. How many have sat to behold this place? How many more still? Sitting in silence, I breathe. Remembering why I’ve come this far, not planning on staying long. Happy I was to sit and stare. Not at a wooden stool, But a wooden thrown. High up in the Lao air.