Natural Mysteries

It's drizzling.

The pecks by a sparrow's moist feet

Are trickling down the window

Engulfed by tiny water-drops.

Like bandits in a forbidden prison,

Infamous once, forgotten thence.

They add the sharp knock on the pane

To their unconscious water-work.

As if to cut and saw the glass

And then gently heal it with

The flow of the whispering water. 

A squirrel feels her claws take on 

The force of the bark of the Ashoka tree.

The brusque bark bristles against her fur

And soothes, caressing the irritation

That some wild-berry, immobile

Inconspicuous- a tiny twig, red fluff

Had unwittingly inflicted.

As she defeats gravity with the friction

Of her claws- she enters the sight

Of the birds at my window-sill.

The bottom of her eye catches their wink

And flits upward. Was that a smile?

Oh yes, mild and bashful, but a smile still.

Now she has not only herself rolled up

But also the corners of her lips.

Until a crow almost deafens her

Out of existence. But the ripples of the sound

Jerk against the tree, and she almost imagines

That she saw the stolid tree chide the bird.

His unheard words give her unseen energy.

Jerk- Grrr. A fruit falls plump to the ground.

Is it an unripe mango or a ripe Imli?

Both waiting for time to make them wanted.

The cushion of the Earth is bruised

But her patience is lather enough to heal.

And suddenly the intricate latticework of the tree

Turns its eyes towards bereaved companions.

But ouch! She wasn't done, their inertia heaves

As the squirrel bites into her first fruit,

Uncaring, unsparing, immersed. The latticework

Gapes, then embarrassed, is geared 

To face either fate.

In the shadows of the discarded fruit

Creeps a mongoose, eclipsing all else

In that plane of sight. It walks the ramp,

Unusually, horizontally. But it manages

The effect with praiseworthy success.

It dawdles, scurries, jumps, skips

And disappears in the brown bushes.

Reminiscing over both, flamboyant appearance

And clever 'disappearance'. 

The pigeon is the artist's touch.

Ubiquitous as they might be, their grey

Gelling with the cement and the gravel,

The stone. But they are never camouflaged

Self-importance raises their crests

Confidence outlines and demarcates them

From their drab surroundings.

Spokes and surfaces of iron, galvanized 

Are held to distaste, dust and must 

Belong to their realm. They wear no frills

They want no fancies. They just want

To be seen, recognized, listened to.

They want to belong.

Jam, thud, falls a bark.

No casualties. As monsoon's here

So are the hasty feet tapping in the water

Noisy, incomprehensible sounds.

Envelop the sight, finally outside
Foiling the balance of the lap of nature.

And so the rightful citizens retreat.

And are saved.