a white pigeon fluttering alone
the April sunny summer hovering on its feathers
it breaks the way around,
mucking in the tree branches,
looking for a trace, a twig to tell it’s not lost
two lovers walk by
looking up at the pigeon
it’s lost aloofness not lost on them
they count the chirps and tweetering of crows and squirrels
a driver, a car cleaner, a washerman
all seated in the shade of an Ashoka nearby
the lost messengers of a society plugged in to the tune of being outcasts
the tunes of one another chiming, atuned
the lost winding turns awake in the them...
they bristle and thrum to the grind ..
all the while, the lostness not lost on them