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.