Summer afternoons have a rhythm of their own

The trill of a faraway bird

An occasional cluck from that resentful hen in the farmstead below my window.

A dispassionate cat stretches long and lazy on the windowsill

Uncaring, in its own world of bliss.

The shush of sleep-drenched hours

Swaying coconut fronds by the sea,

their whisperings only their own knowing.

Slow crashing of cappuccino-frothed waves

that mar the languor of a Goan April.

I reach into my bowl of mango achaar

The shooting tartness, a near satori moment of reckoning.

Pages of my open book flutter like butterfly wings in a garden

All is well in my world.