Some just came to drink
across a table of water,
others just left, pudding-pipes
in their way,
a calf sniffs to the side,
alone a bull’s tusks
point to his raised trunk,
movement of myriad grey.
A flycatcher, a blue of his own,
excavated in the sky
from the sun, rests on a Neem.
Soap pods in patches. Snakey
trunks smell a cardamom memory.
The ones that came to drink leave
for wild plantains, more come
across the water again.
(First appeared in Plum Tree Tavern)
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