I claimed to be wandering mindlessly,
yet I could not close my ears to the bird
perched in the mango’s dark canopy
calling for a mate, I suppose.

I claimed to be wandering mindlessly,
yet my peripheral sight snagged on the poultry
under the amla tree.
One hen stood sentinel; two others
scissored flakes of corn with their needle-beaks
from a sliced mustard oil bottle.
A frantic congregation scratched at the dirt,
scouring the earth for ants
and other small, capable lives.

Six ducklings huddled in the dust,
their downy chests absorbing the fever of the ground.
Even with the sun still young,
the soil was an oven;
they broke for the cracked pond nearby.

Something, a flea, perhaps,
punctured
the skin of my right forearm.
I felt the sudden alchemy of the blood,
the chemistry of the site shifting into an itch.
I scratched, and the world felt sharper.

A restless, not-so-gentle breeze
brushed against the grain of my skin.
It was cooling, a sudden reprieve,
and for a moment, the “I” inside the head
allowed itself a pulse of joy.

The air brought a heavy inventory of scents:
part fruit-rot, part wood-smoke,
the honest, gritty stench of the gutter.
I did not recoil.
It made the moment feel weighted,
solid as a stone.

I told myself I was wandering mindlessly,
but the poem betrayed me.
I had seen, sensed, smelled, and suffered.
I was pinned to the present by a thousand threads,
yet I remained oblivious to the grander drift,
the half-moon rising in the periphery,
while I was busy counting the ants.

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