WeaverŐs Nest

 

Monsoon winds

brought long awaited

smell of mud and a 

familiar, joyful sound

of weaverbird, my guest,

flipping around eagerly, 

choosing his plot,

in my backyard.

 

Getting busier by the day

dutifully picking up

blades of fine grass & stalks,

in seven days, he had

nearly woven globular nest,

that would put many a 

blessed artistic hands 

of men to shame.

 

Rains did sweep over,

battering the place,

rumbling, heaping 

hailstones. Shelterless

dogs forgot to yelp,

All living eyes waited

for the Sun to rise, and

Rains to cease.

 

After restless night

I rushed to see my guest,

who perched on broken branch.

Not a strand of grass hung

in the place of his nest, he

nervously flipped with 

embarrassed face, as his

partner cruelly flew away.

 

Screeching silence 

of my guest hurt my ears.

His hurt, filled my heart 

with blankness.

Smell of monsoon mud 

was lost, so was 

lost -  resounding,

joyful, familiar sound.

 

© Thriveni C. Mysore