Mornings licked amber,
wet, bright,
papaya pulp split in the grass,
rain still steaming off rooftops.
they came,
sway-backed, jewel-eyed,
weaving cobalt ribbons through the cricket fields,
feathers slick as oil spills.
I waited,
barefoot, rice pinched in small fingers,
not offering—inviting.
they took
beaks sharp,
eyes glinting like they carried whole summers behind them—
but they never left.
even when the rains came,
hard and urgent,
they stayed, hips swaying under silver sheets,
tails dragging through warm mud.
I thought they danced for me,
as if the whole monsoon belonged only to the girl watching,
silent, secret-spined,
hair curling at the nape,
too small to touch,
too quiet to call them by name,
but they saw me.
I know they did.
they crowned me in silence—
Princess of Puddles,
Keeper of Small Hungers.
somewhere between the serpent hunts,
the rain-slick pirouettes,
I learned how beauty moves,
how it takes without asking,
how it lives without needing to be seen.
they were never mine,
but I belonged to them,
to the fevered mornings,
to the blue-green shimmer folded beneath heavy air,
to the secret language only wild things speak
something wordless,
something that never leaves you.
Every morning, on my way to school, I passed by those peacocks—swaying through the fields, feathers damp with night rain—the first beautiful thing that ever made me feel chosen. Feeding them in my backyard became the quiet ritual of my childhood, and still remains one of my fondest memories.