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.
It was an evening safari when one of the vehicles spotted a leopard with a kill in some well placed rocks. We reached there but only managed to get some glimpse of the leopard through the bushes, but the next morning when we arrived at the spot full of expectation, we were taken by surprise; the kill had been taken over by two sub-adult tigers.