FENCES

The bird sat on carefully conserved

silence

As if its feathers may break the eggs.

It's beaks a dull yellow

Sharp chisel to carve its young.

The yards had grown beyond measure

Walls or fences 

to keep everything in place

overgrown with fresh vines and buds

waving in the air.

THE OTHER DAY

 The morning was as it used to be

drizzling, a running nose

Birds flew about, expectant

Sun started rising

A wind blew the curtains

Spattering dry leaves all-about

The whistle of pressure cookers

And the whir of grinding and washing.

Clothes condemned to hanging

Doves pecking at unseen grain

The call reaching up to the skies 

From a nearby mosque.

Clouds hanging low

As if in mourning

The alternating scents of opening flowers

And cooking fish.

Someone in the shower-

water streaming down.