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July 2018, vol 14 no 2

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Salil Chaturvedi

The Meadow

Late December. No one ever comes this way. The grass in the meadow has gone bone dry. A clump catches the morning sun and appears like sticks of gold emerging from the earth. The rest of the grass is laid helter-skelter. I sit down to read the patterns of the winter wind on it.

lonely meadow –
a hawk’s shadow
touches mine