Monsoon
By onemorething
- 1819 reads
Purple-rumped sunbirds bathe
in the dew that dawn has bequeathed
to a leaf - the absolution of morning,
purified to dart between the blushed lobes
of bruguiera in a thirst for nectar,
to sow their futures of two mossy eggs
in hanging nests of web and lichen.
And here, they wait for the rhythm of rain;
its shine reflected in the eye
of a pied cuckoo. A monsoon is hot
and heavy when dancing frogs are united,
a scrub greens under deluge.
Everywhere life is built from water,
and yet, can seem too unsteady
for such architecture - how it vanishes
from a hand - its reminder
of the fragility of existence.
Image is of a male purple-rumped sunbird:https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Purple-rumped_sunbird
Images on Twitter: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Purple-rumped_Sunbird_(Leptocoma_zeylonica)-_female_at_nest_in_Hyderabad_W2_IMG_0297.jpg#mw-jump-to-license
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Comments
Your poem
reminded me of a visit to the Jurong Bird Park in Singapore one day, over 40 years ago.
Monsoon season, I remember it well. Half the broadsheet back page of the Straits Times would be dedicated to forecasts attempting to predict at what hour the rains would arrive where... and they were invariably wrong.
As atmospheric as the best reading huddled around a camp-fire (or Zoom screen).
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I once got caught in a
I once got caught in a monsoon on Skikoku. But that's another story.
This is another poem. And I love it.
Drew
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Haha! Yes.
Haha! Yes.
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Well, there is The Birdland
Well, there is The Birdland Bar in Flamingo Hotel - home to (stuffed) exotic birds, a singles night, a wedding and a cat funeral.
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