In the deep snows horses take us up to the higher echelons. We do not want to be big shots and we only want to see our phallus God rising in snow. The horses have hoofs that carefully negotiate snow and mud.
The horse masters urge them on. If they are wayward they hurl filthy abuses at them. Horses somehow understand . They are hurt if the masters call their parents equines of questionable morals. And their moms unchaste and their dads fornicators. They protest instantly by poop droppings.
The crows in the Himalayas are fat and their cries are hoarse caws, so different from those of their cousins from the coast. But they sit on electric wires just like their cousins in the coastal plains do. Against the white of the snows they contrast starkly. They may not take to the rice balls we offer to our dead every year. But we have not verified this in the white purity of the snows.