By Kirandeesh Kaur
Two birds, attuned to my melody, perch around me— Interrupted by the honks of a car in the far corner.
July couldn't have rung louder, better-all while
My paper-thin sweater sheathes me from the chill of the day.
The folly of merry children and their bats—
Thrown into the air, liberated, exuding such jolly,
Like the man mincing to the music in his head, half-sober— Tossing the only penny in his pocket.
(I did not forget about them, Mom!)—the aunts have aged. Time really passed in a flick since
My friends moved out, and so did I.
We scattered and aged—unlike the aunts; they show no signs!
Then, a bird wrestling with a spider web on the electric pole- The one that sang of danger signs when I was little.
I approach it with a throbbing heart, on the brink of sanity, Touching, and feeling like it were skin,
Smiling at the bird, urging it to leap—until it finally did!
No wonder where it will go, or how high it will soar.
I traverse the corners of the streets, compounded by blue flowers, Some melting away from the heat.
The wind forgets its direction, but still carries the scent of longing. Won't a book in my hand make this scene a perfect retreat?