A bat flies towards the berry tree. If it has a fruit on its mouth, it’s too dark to see. The dinner’s curry cooks with cumin, turmeric, kashmiri, with some cinnamon bark and cardamom, too. Afternoon’s rain anointed the soil just before the stars woke up. The spiced-breeze eats up the last tinge of petrichor.
He opens the door to invite me in. Perhaps the rice is getting cold. I look up one more time to catch a glimpse. There, he rises, the meteor’s golden guard.
baby hawk cuddles
inside its lightly wet nest—
last bloom of May wilts