Monsoon Come

Dried up ol' river
streaks of brown mud is all
remaining of coursing surges
turbulence teeming fishes.

Crackling clay
frogs' love nests
blowing away.

Dust, serpentine trails
in the lifting off...
aimless thoughts...

In the north death
is dark and cold
and final, so it seems.
But in the tropics
death is hot and dry
and endless.

'Monsoon come'
whisper crackled ol' lips,
a trace of spittle winding down
as jaw falls open
and eyes too
and skin sags to join river bottom.

Something knows...
the hushed bird nearby
or shrunken branch on which it sits...
bones will wash away
with the rain.