Early-summer evening, an unhoused female, vacant eyed,
in
Vogelsang Green Park, sighs beside the bronze backpack
sculpture on the red slab of stone.
The rouged cheeks barely hide black marks on the gaunt face.
The
charcoal clouds hang low over the Dutch gable roof, their
bloated bellies
the kid wants
to
hold and tickle.
Dark circles expand, contract, swirl, twist
above
the thickets of
the aspen trees.
The murmuration, a spectacle of sheer joy to the viewer transfixed. Starlings, the whirling dervishes of the sky; each intricate move, a masterclass in arial dance evolved over the centuries. The magic fades away quickly.
The octaves merge with melancholic notes
of an
aeolian harp being played in the woodland,
sunk in soft gloom; each tree, a blurred line.
.
Sunil Sharma
