Just coasting along. In a state of contemplation. In the quiet.
Marking the shadow of the palm fronds on the tar.
Marking the curtain of sunlight past the green on the awning.
Revelling in the gulmohars that bloom, no reason or reasoning required or proffered- they just are.
Thrilling in the cuckoos and parrots and sundry strange birds.
An orchestra or a cacophony? You decide. I can't be bothered.
If only I’d known cleaning out my mailbox would be as therapeutic.