Between Rain

sulken branches, holding
societies of weaver bird nests
speckled by the moving chatter
of a thousand yellow birds
forming lives

the fields heavy with ponds, bordered
by tip toeing jackals
the quenched quails that flutter in unison
and the black stone stands mossy, waiting
for a fern to cover its eyelashes

and till the long distance, the country
ripens in the green season
a soft light glazes the earth
each bund
a square mirror for the clouds


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