The night cricket that forgot it was morning

The grass was soft, silky but not wet. Today there is only light ,no dew. Yesterday’s  little paper planes the kids had made out of literacy pamphlets have flown or their debris has already been cleared after yesterday’s crashes.

Where the tree began a new sound was born of a night cricket that forgot it was morning.In my future rounds it would cry out, in a staccato rhythm, as I would be approaching the tree every time in my walking rounds. The sounds would come from an absence of cricket. The cricket was but an illusion. What you cannot see cannot be true. But the sound of a cricket is true like the light that falls on the grass and makes the grass real.

A dream is an image that cannot be true.It is pure representation of a real thing, not the real thing itself. But a shadow is  as real as the real thing. A halo is not representation, nor a silhouette a copy. These are real things.

The bamboo is smooth and round to the fingers. In the next round of walk ,when I return it would be smooth, round and cool. The sitting stone is boulder that forgot to become hill. It is brown and wet with hose water. The sitting stone rises from the grass. It does not sit in the grass. Only I sit on it.

My home is the tree where the cricket cries. Actually it is the place where I keep my sandals and come back to it after the grass walk. Some times I keep my sandals behind the green bench when the bare armed man is not making nostril noises there.

I pat my trees in each round in appreciation of their standing. I smell their little new flowers and praise their fragrance. Now I appreciate the cricket’s absence too.

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