one night, a bat swooshed through

from the crack of my window
as i was sipping water. may
be it was confused by the night-
light in the room but it kept flitting
between the edge of the pane
and the bulb over my head. i slunk
to the floor and crawled my way
towards the window while it kept
flying as if tracing out the rings
of saturn. i jammed my fingers
against the frame and let it slide
a little before i cut off the light.
the bat fluttered in the dark for
a while, its wing fencing
with the quiet of the room before
it shot out to the open, a speck
against the bulb in the sky.

it is loudest before dawn

right before the sun spills
out from the stack of gray
comforters, the air stills
as if in preparation of something.
then the rustle of leaves, faint
at first, turns conspiratorial
as each leaf shivers out
a secret of its own. on cue,
sparrows chirp through mobs
of branches, their tiny form
roiling from nests squiggled
into darkness. cars sputter
and dogs creep out from under,
the pitter-patter of their paws
fading into the lazy swoosh
of the milkman’s cycle, his
thumb-creaking bell tinkle
jolting lights in the kitchen
and as he stashes away
pouches of milk by the door,
the sun sneaks to the trees, one
fiery leaf after another.

The Phone Call

We become brothers again
for an hour every week, when
your voice breaks over streets
that have started to crisp just as
ours learn the art of crawling
into shadows. I adjust the volume
on the TV and you talk about movies
at the cinema. It’s the weather up
next and your discovery of frozen
blue jays, their beaks slightly ajar.
On that day – you say – you were not
at work but at home, flipping
through albums when you came across
us: me with a black-eye and you
with the icepack. It was taken
just after a game of cricket was lost
to a scuffle. It still wasn’t out, I say,
and we laugh. Soon, our words give
way to ahs that swirl in our tongue
like tiny gales and as our pause lengthens,
a boat sails out in the evening, a hand
hauling in its daily catch.