by Padmini Krishnan
It is the last moment
before the sky decides to pelt
the earth with
bullets of rain.
The eagles breeze along lazily
without flapping their wings.
Rodents hover outside their holes,
weaverbirds perch on the terrace
shaking their crest and
linger in the trees, never wanting
the smoke of darkness to envelope
their tiny world.
* * * * *
Padmini Krishnan was born in India and now resides in Singapore. She writes free verse poetry, haiku, and short stories. Her recent works have appeared in Stonecrop Review, Cafe Lit. Journal, Under the Basho, and Potato Soup Journal.