by Ajay Kumar
Some just came to drink
across a table of water,
others just left,
pudding-pipes in their way,
a calf sniffs to the side,
alone a bull’s tusks
point to his raised trunk,
movement of myriad grey.
A flycatcher, a blue of his own,
excavated in the sky
from the sun, rests on a Neem.
Soap pods in patches. Snaky
trunks smell a cardamom memory.
The ones that came to drink leave
for wild plantains, more come
across the water again.
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