The air is robust;
The breeze from the sunflower fields
Fills the lungs with spell-binding joy.
Fifteen or twenty minutes ago, at the western horizon,
The sun dropped the day
In an orange sea of glory;
The dissolving light
Paints the silhouettes of retreating cattle.
The hermits of darkness
Unweave
Out of their cocoons.
At a distance,
An oak tree is flocked
With an elation of skylarks.
A few yards away from the tree,
Inconspicuously hidden
Behind the fencing of a full bougainvillea bloom,
Is a small house
Ornamented with falling creepers,
The season’s blossoming best.
From the chimney,
A thin smoke of supper brew
Masts into the evening sky.
Twilight’s music is orchestrated
By the cacophony of the crickets and the frogs.
A dragonfly hangs head-down
To a ripening orange in the garden.
It is life in the country;
Life ‘grows’ in the country.
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