The sun has yet to ripen in the tree’s hair. All is quiet except for the crunch of a walkers feet in the sand.The saree rag now hardly stirs, its baby memories now elsewhere, with its mother carrying bricks on her head probably on another construction site .
A bone dry puppy is scrounging around for food. Returning ,there was entire dog family of mother with four puppies accompanying . The canines are an extension of the night.
The morning was about a grandiloquence, thawing a numb winter. The words were a lot of sound and their fury sounded our nights. You opened window to a dog’s bark, a lower language at midnight curve. Window is half way to the horizon.
The words echo in the hollow of our bones while winter is raging in them. Soon they will be dumb by a night.