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Late November

Winter has come, such as it does here.
Trees are still green but the sunlight has a pale coolness
slanting low in the sky.

Fields lay bare after the harvest; fallow, waiting.
Life suspended.
The days short.
This is a time for working.

There are no flowers in sun dappled fields to call me away,
the siren song of summer has silenced.
Winter whispers "death," 
a more sobering word, reminding:
life is short.

Three months I have already been here.
Can this be?
How quickly passed, and quickly passing.
So much I want to do, to learn, to experience.
Is there enough time?
Is there ever enough time?

Nepal text