A Night in a Yurt in Mongolia

The door is a size for dwarves
we pull it closed
against the coming storm
cold, wind, rain outside

inside
the crisscross frame encircles
a floor of quilted bedding
a small hot stove
where we warm our hands
and pour water from the kettle
steaming into cups

sudden thunder
the lights fare out
a young Mongolian
bursts in with candles
they flicker through dust
blown in
under horsehair felt
thick to the touch
protection
against the desert's gale.