When the universe spills its rotis, my crows eat it

The crow when in hopeful departure from the mango tree

did not find the bread crumbs on the corridor wall

still flew in at the sound of iron gate opening.

When I bring water to the parapet wall

in white plastic dish of Bengali fast foods,

I am surprised by how sure the crow is

of the bowl holding water only.

And I do not even try to test,
or trick,
or check,

for anything that could tell me otherwise.

“The parapet prevents roof edge from blowing off

by diverting air flow up, over and away.”

The Extraordinary thing I do not think I am,
my boundaries are.

In the days of September

mother once said, “Our ancestors
might come as crows --

That this one right there,
quietly stalking the edge of left-over piece of roti -

is one we are seeing our people in”.

The crow dips its beak in water,

leaves bread crumbs to float,

shoots to branch with jaws full;

I want to be this hopeful
about something that comes

only in good times!

The thing about parapets, corridors, verandas, terraces
is that they keep making way for possibilities.

I did not know until now
I wanted to become a place,
inhabiting so much unpredictability
that the Universe does not rest until it meets
My boundary.            

When the Universe spills its rotis here,

my crows eat it without thinking about

the Universe coming over here again.

The crows come nonetheless.