I do not know the names of the little blue flowers that lean out of the mountain out towards the fast flowing river far down below. I know the ones that line the balcony and separate me from the river. They are little now, but will have thorns when they grow up. They are here to protect me, lest I lean out too, looking upon the river rushing below. I cannot be trusted, you see, I am human, as are the others on this balcony with me.
I soak in the beauty of the mountains around me. These are the foothills of the Himalayas. They are made of mud. My grandmother would tell me that humans were made of mud, just like these majesties that soar above me today. Fragile, as the floods showed us not many years ago. Standing because they pack themselves tight, intensely holding on to the next piece of earth, as if it was themselves. A few tree roots more would have helped them, would bing them together in the communion of trees, but those have been chopped and logged away. May that remain are weak, so many washed downstream by the monsoon each year. The mud mountains look old, but their fragility is not due to their age. It is their nature to stand so, fragile, proud, and still there.
Much like us, fragile, and still here.