Morning Scene

Rocky hills stand still unmoved by the destruction of the greenery around them. 

A mute witness to the ravaging human

If it could speak what would it say?

A morning bird calling

A slight mist hanging over the fields

Lending a mystic beauty to nature

A scrub jungle all around

With islands of tiny patches of cultivation 

Train chugging along the slope leisurely

A flick of birds in white plume suddenly rise from nowhere

How well do they coordinate in silent communication?

Signs of human habitation with houses dotting the fields

An orange patch in the distant grey sky

The Sun trying to break out of the clouds

With all intent I see, poetry flows easy.