Sunday, February 27, 2005


Grassy, snowy desert-steppe, tan and white, is rolling by the window. The train passed the border from China into Mongolia, changing wheels and stamping passports, around midnight, eight hours ago. We are rolling northwest, towards Ulaanbaatar. Five years I have been away from Mongolia. I have done and seen many things; I have loved and been loved; friends have died. Horses and gers, smoke puffing from their chimney-pipes, pock the expansive land. Sky is a clear, pale blue. I have returned.

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