The sky always tells a story.


The teal sky welcomes its newest pal
– a bird, in place of airplanes;
seen through wrought iron windows,
against the background of
curry leaves simmering in oil,
and runners whizzing past toddlers
learning to ride their tiny bicycles.

A dreamcatcher waves in the breeze,
casting filigreed shadows on the balcony floor,
ornamenting the pot hanging from the
metal bracket painted in white.
One part of the sky oozes ink
and the other absorbs it like blotting paper.

The sun is about to retire,
and the golden hour highlights
silver linings on the clouds,
like a fluffed pillow ripped open,
to spill and reveal cotton fillings
that make patterns in the red sky.

Birds hide atop fans on warm days,
and squirrels scoot about without finding
tomatoes to chew on, because the
competition is high when humans are involved.

Diurnal owls hoot and flutter;
before returning to their high-rise roosts.

Cherry-blossom trees sway in the breeze.
Rivulets sparkle like glitter in the light,
roses bloom and lillies burst open,
the sky’s a spectator of all that unravels
in every nook and tiny crevice.

The sky looks like a possible future.

While we’ve hit the pause button,
the plants careen and the ligers play about,
pandas mate; and deers jounce in joy,
butterflies break out of their cocooned homes;
and fireflies live, if even, for an extra day.

The sky looks like freedom to me.