NIGHTFALL Poem by Prabodh Parikh

Such an evening
as in the stillness of which one hears landscapes
steaming from the trains of the spirit.

Flying out of the window, birds
become airplanes
that build a row of cities on my pointing finger.
Across the veil of this moment
the rooftop flies a kite.
Every vein sways drunk,
every limb's a swing.

Such an evening
as when I see the Buddha licking an ice-cream in my palm;
don't see
but become
the camaraderie of crickets that can only be heard
in the air of being
in my blood.

Such an evening
(it's nothing to me)
that I can hear the stillness.

Stillwater, 1974.