An evening rover roams hither and thither among the hollyhocks. There’s a grey-green deodar cedar, its base circled by a seat where I sit, listening to bo-ko-ta-ko of an Indian cuckoo hiding in a full-leaved tree.
Miles off a train passes. Its soft whine accentuates the stillness. By my side, a slender thread of a stream chortles by. In the east, the moon, in the west, the sun, both at their mellow best, one crimson, the other orange.
I espy their whirlwind romance, as the dusk arrives on the scene. Clouds have stopped in their tracks too, witnessing the magic.