Perspective

This morning on the bank of the river a gathering, smoke rising from a funeral pyre by the cold jade water. 
Later, in the hot springs, a shift in perception or perspective, stepping out into a day which had become unexpectedly detached, sitting in the square watching white rabbits being thrust towards new faces, twenty rupees a photo. Yesterday their placidity was explained, they're fed on the wild marijuana which grows all over the place here, could also explain the bright red eyes. 
And then the realisation that this has become normal, the guy in Pushkar washing himself in fresh cow piss, not odd enough for a second glance: the mad glory of india undermining the foundations for a moment, casting you into the flood of now, wearing you down until something's set free and normal becomes whatever's happening around you at any given moment. 
Later, fom the balcony, the sound of bleating, a flock of sheep winding endlessly up the steps toward summer pasture.
A walk towars the waterfall in search of a place to sit, watching the flow of visitors and listening to the water.
And then suddenly alone, the water rushing downhill and all voices quiet. Across the river fresh snow shining, clouds spilling up the valley bringing rain, snow higher up, delayed roads and the rhymes of history. 
And M's last meal, the knowledge that tomorrow will bring change. But that's the way of it, there are ten thousand things and they are always changing.