When the yellow day coppers to dusk
I paint my weary eyes dreams.
They nudely wade the crabhole muds
for marks of the great marksman
climb up the chunks going into tides
tiptoe through the needle roots
sniff a wind that smells of stripes
thrilled
death if comes
would be a momentary stir
a dangling cloth
resting on the trail of blood, marking,
someone ventured.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
When the yellow day coppers to dusk
I paint my weary eyes dreams.
They nudely wade the crabhole muds
for marks of the great marksman
climb up the chunks going into tides
tiptoe through the needle roots
sniff a wind that smells of stripes
thrilled
death if comes
would be a momentary stir
a dangling cloth
resting on the trail of blood, marking,
someone ventured.
Tiger trail, Sunderban, February 24-25, 2018
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