Winter, passing

Alone at home, sun languid on trees and city walls, first leaves lush on the krishnachura, shadows in the guava tree foretelling the evening. A holiday afternoon recreates the long hours of summer vacations, alone at a window at the top of the stairs, looking out at a blimp far away and a kite wheeling so high it hurts the eyes to seek it. Memory embellishes the smell of scented "nylon" erasers and schoolbooks wrapped in brown paper. The silence accentuated by birds and the occasional car. The quiet luxury of books waiting to be read. Sharp-etched, bitter-sweet crisp like a dark chocolate twist.

As I lean back and let out a luxurious plume of smoke, suddenly, from somewhere across the road, “Rangeela rey”…

A moment so perfect it hurts with the thought of its passing.

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And in other news, they're everywhere.