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.