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Monsoon
Daybreak; the rain has stopped.
The betel palms' ample tongues, tired
of too much of what they had craved
all summer, loll down, drooling endlessly.
A hushed theater of excess attended by nothing
but birdcall. The sky is blotches of soot -
black watercolor on the morning's damp,
diaphanous spread.
The garden path is full
of young snails, hundreds of them,
sauntering for shelter, past
hundreds of crushed ones.
By Eugene Datta
QLRS Vol. 1 No. 4 Jul 2002
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