The slowed down time of a poet's day

 

A couple of uproariously adolescent monkeys, a lacework of mischief, with beet-red bums, jumping around for fun. They greet “how-d’you-do” to humanity in the morning; running to jump onto the electricity poles, shaking them with a sadistic pleasure; gratifyingly wheedling, spinning, twirling to leave a tornado of misbehavior. I watch bewilderedly. A gabbling spirit of youth an energy—fresh-morning youth with moistened tremulous lips.

The big dark-grey goonish feral tomcat, the hideous scourge for the birds among the trees and plants in the yard, is sprawled for sunbathing. Tailorbird bickering, bulbul gabbling, babbler riling, squirrel tik-tikking. But they cannot come near because the foe has a crafty shiftiness in its eyes even while resting. Then the flycatcher takes the lead. It has a spurtling maneuverability in its wings; a rousing charge and dandyish twists and turns from a close range. So the beautiful agile flycatcher goes for a helicopter sortie over the cat; flicking, fluttering, flying at a point just a few inches above any world-record holder tomcat would jump to catch a prey midair. The cat looks vanquished and helpless. It gives a sinister, vicious scowl to which the birdie helicopter gives indignant, whinny clangor of notes in triumphant spirits from the side of all the birds.

Mating fleas taking a tumble on my newspaper. It has happened thrice in a week, so need to note this. Falling in a torrid unison of desire, like a little pebble on the soft newsprint, almost crashing through lesser news. A flabby and pulp love drop. Sweltering passion in cool October breeze. A spasmodic and riotous carousal humming in the wings and two sparks colliding into each other with lightening swiftness, giving good news for the flea kingdom on human newsprint.

I wring clothes before putting them on the clothesline to dry. Soapy water gets squeezed out forming a few little puddles on the brickyard floor. Three Indian robins make the most of this. Flicking tails, wetting wings and taking few sips in between. Rejoicing rills. It’s a lovely sight to watch birds playing like this.

On my solitary walk a spectacle of motherly love. In a marshy overgrown patch among the ripening paddy fields the angry trumpeting notes of a mother sarus crane. A mother would jump head first into danger to save her little ones. She has eggs here and some dogs have arrived sniffing the grass. So she dexterously feigns to be an injured and sick bird, not able to fly, giving agonized cries to draw them after her away from the nest. They follow her despairing notes and sickly strides, sensing victory in catching her. When they seem like catching her, she takes a few seemingly labored wing-strokes to just fly out of their mouth and land a few feet ahead and then run again to keep them on the hunt. And the befooled and lousy devils being drawn into the fading light towards the pink ball melting in the twilight dark grey veil lurking over the horizon.