I lay, staring upwards, out, of the window on the wall. It's a big, square, transparent glass with white frames. Many a mornings have I, spent quiet moments here. Eyes lodged at the sky, sometimes grey sometimes blue, or the line of rooftops of homes on the other side. Today the glass is adorned with beads of raindrops. It never pours heavily out here. So, you know, these paintings are by a malnourished rain. Short, straight lines. Some slanted. Although slightly. Reminds me of the long grass, That stems up from the soil. These grasses of raindrops, stem up from the base of the window. I am waiting for a bird. To fly across this vista. Across this greyish sky. I wait, patiently, curious. Out of which corner will it enter and towards where will it go? So many possibilities! For a bird in the sky. But all I am interested in, is its trajectory within the narrowness of my view. Much like anything else, in the times of present. There goes one! I didn't have to wait long. Birds are up and about! Already.This rainy Saturday morning! It spent but a few seconds, within my frame of vision. But has already made its mark on this poem, see! Its life, its position at a certain time in sky, has been documented. There is no escape now. There is no wishing to have lived a quiet, unassuming life on earth. A couple more fly by. But since they are not the first, the awe is not as much. I remember reading somewhere: Novelty is the deciding factor. Period.
A twenty something feeling her way through life.