I’ve been over Sagarmāthā,
winked at wall of death.
Aerial fights with Golden Eagle,
anon the Indian breath.
I’ve raised six Tibetan goslings,
in their mountain lakes.
Our Gander honked to meadows South,
along with other drakes.
Bird watchers count the bars on head,
divide the total by two.
Some are wedded by the rings,
to audit our deadly flu.
I return to higher land for summer,
with just two goslings ringed.
One was shot, another for Hawk,
two were plastic winged.