Spring

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It’s spring in Dhaka,

.

mornings are getting lighter,

short, sharp winter has faded.

Earmuffs are flung in sludgy gutters

and suits disappear into dark depths of crowded wardrobes.

.

Early and late mosquitoes swarm in ecstasy,

hiding in black and sniffing for unwashed feet

and sinewy ankles

.

Weddings are celebrated in apartment blocks covered with fairy lights,

whole streets filled with twinkling fireflies,

powered by energy from black breathing generators,

newly roused from their short winter hibernation.

.

Trees await the monsoon,

stripping off dusty, sun-bleached leaves in anticipation

and burned in street sweepers piles. Twigs and leaves

add to texture of grainy air.

.

Breath of the dragon filters down narrow streets in afternoons,

licking lips in anticipation, but still he sleeps long and late,

building his strength,

and mornings are safe and cool.

.

Water levels are low and as days grow warm

water bubbles ripen greenly on lakes dusty surface.

Fish are concentrating in the city soup,

tiny fish mouths break scummy surfaces, gasping for oxygen.

.

Days are waiting, waiting fearfully for summer heat,

every organism is longing, longing thirstily for monsoon rain.

.

.

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