rajshree trivedi


The pol housed cows, bulls, sheep, narrow lanes
Running into one another, a few cycles and them.
Out in the khadki breaking the dawn,
All but them make sounds.

Rice husk -‘sish-sash, sish-sash’- in the sam-khali beat
Flinging out of the large winnowing basket,
The small deft wristlets working in rhythm,

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