The snapshot of a December day

 

The honeycomb in the curry-leaf tree is a buxom round thing now. It serves to have some flowers in your garden. It gives an opportunity to the honeybees to survive for some more time in your area. I keep my eyes ready for the lone honey buzzard that sometimes scans the skies for some odd honeycomb somewhere. Apart from some innocent plunders during childhood, I have never tried to take away honey from a comb. It is as bad as someone taking money from my account. Its smell and sight are my primary takeaways. Maybe they sense and feel safe this way because the honeybees stay almost permanently in the yard.

The sky ponders with an infinitely impersonal look. There are hundreds of marigolds basking under the hazy sunrays of December. In the afternoon, a pale sun shining upon the unassuming flowers, I find the bees almost dozing in calm slumber after getting overfed on the pollen. Look at these little things and an instinct’s illumination, shrouded in the ordinary promptings of a common man, turns it a beautiful world.

The cats are growing finely and the coquettish mysteries cajoling from outside the fence turn them more out-bound these days. Desire is in incubation and they seem to have a liking for cat girls. It means the dove’s eggs are safe so far. At least the eggs may hatch. Beyond that I don’t see much of a chance. It’s such a careless, flimsy nest of sinewy twigs, so low and almost public, that some eagle will have a bigger hatchling breakfast in lieu of the cats missing on the egg breakfast.

In the next-door granduncle’s house, all Labrador Tuffy can do is to bark at the monkeys. He cannot scale walls and jump over roofs like them. One or the other monkey purposefully sits at a point visible to the helpless dog. The clever monkeys keep changing their post, and the sentry Labrador goes barking through the day. He has to realize that one shouldn’t test one’s lungs over the issues about which one cannot do much.