We saw the red velvety little thing
Yesterday had come out of a hole
And was crawling on muddy road .
How did it know rain had arrived ?
The mystery was promptly solved
When unknown bird picked it up .
And we now begin to wonder less
To let mysteries stay in the holes.
When we were kids just this high
We would keep red velvety things
In homes of colorful matchboxes.
This bird never came between us.
It appears Koel came back this time
For mango festival a little too early.
Its calls coaxed rains to drop silver
Under an Ashoka tree among its fall
Recently yellow and ripe gray fruits,
Proving a television weather wrong.
Raindrops fall upon its shameless
Parasitic brood, a some one else’s
Responsibility, the way world grew.
The black crow would raise chicks
From its monsoon’s indiscretions.
But koel’s mango song is so sweet
Around stones tongues lick clean
That wagging tongues skip morals
And forgive lack of responsibility.
Midnight music is the rising ocean
Called by a reddening of the moon.
Midnight music is the pipal leaves
Playing the wind’s exotic hill music
As fingers touch their spiked ends.
Midnight music is invisible cricket
Singing from dark silence of bush.
As sun strikes and a white wall
Stays put in shadows of hedge.
Cricket stories abound in there.
Grass replicates the past words
On bare feet to earth, cracked
Like mind in a nothing’s duress.
The body re-thinks own stories
Physical stories mired in words.
Stories are just words of things
Under long lying stones in sun.
They are crickets creaking under
Vague stones lying in the grass.
She would come out of laziness
Wading through the moat for us
For a visual contrast for cameras.
She finds her own white boring
In a bleak brown zoo enclosure
The green water may liven it up.
We try to reason need for white
A setting apart sense, idle king’s
Sylvan fancy or his wild life love.
A white tiger might have begun
In woods not its own tigerliness
But color change for king’s eyes
Bored with golden brown coat
Burning bright in Blake’s poem.