Before it rains in Langtang, the rain dolls pucker
their cotton lips, the satin-ribbed curtains blow
with the rumbling thunder, the shutters
of Sherpa lodge pull their cords and the windows
are discovered open.

The river of the sky lagoons between
two clouds, its many-colored reefs
sweep around in their downward journeys
until, at last, they plough the fragranced soil

and become mushroom, hibiscus, strawflower—
even Java plums and lychees.

Birds and beasts

lash and jump like whales upon puddled water,
macaques and snowmen become pilgrims
along trails of waterlogged rubble,
the rain dolls sway with beads of glint
in their matte eyes, a slow spread

of their tangerine mouths, a promise
of resurrection to maples and pines
from tremors and losses from the year before.