Dolma

I sit on a worn yak-wool blanket, the earth warm beneath me, the mountains watching like old friends. My chuba is red like the setting sun, and my braids are a little messy from the wind and play. I listen to everything — the hawks above, the yaks below, the quiet breath of my sibling beside me. I’ve carried a secret for months now, heavy like a stone in my pocket. But some secrets need to be shared, and this sky — vast and forgiving — feels like the right witness.