I open my door and they fly away,

with sleek demeanor,

in ordered randomness,

I scared them.

But I know better and disregard them.

 Oxygen around me seems still-

characteristic of a golden summer sundown

when I notice leaves naturally neon,

“The mango’s still sprouting it seems.”

I look closer- fruits blush too you know.

Still, they wave, and I look

when momentarily it sweeps cool.

Away from this fantastical bubble,

my dreamy self recalls-

there’s labour awaiting.

Finding pleasure in fatigue,

In this unhappening, ennui age,

sharing sun with soil and getting pricks on grass

they both tempt.

Away with a day’s work,

again, I hear chirps

but this time no bird.

I dug the dry ground beside me.

Is the grey rock racing me?

Is the brown one hopping?

I turn, they take a fearful flight.

There’s a certain sentiment which reflects

when water overflows pots

like being rejected and getting left without a message

as it drips on ground and feels wasted.

“What’s gone’s gone.”

But the show choir comes back and sits

and soothes their throat after that beautifully sung song.