The sky like a well-worn shirt on a summer day, hung to dry. The birds safe in their nests unwilling to explore the heavens beyond. Who wants to make love to a muddy sky?
The earth dressed in a skirt of leaves is what you want as a keepsake. The sound of the gurgling river is what catches your attention. And as you close your eyes and concentrate, the world just melts away as a chocolate bar on a sunny day. Who needs the FM, the soaps on the idiot box (not even the Discovery channel), the newspapers ….. let me BE.
Let me enjoy my surroundings; rooted to where I stand.
With the rains Barvi has outgrown its quietness. The river behaving as they do: rushing past unhindered by the boulders lying on its bed, making its presence felt by the noise as it sprints.
I sit on its shore dwelling on the words—quiet alone.
Didn’t the poet say: The quieter you become, the more you can hear.
Quiet Alone
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Wow! This is poetry. I must thank the season and the river for extracting kavita from the man of the hira.
Solitude and a passing river can make one a poet. Yes, it does.