When we were wee-boys, in knickers, we threw pebbles at the mango tree for fruits . In the morning, when the white birds in the sky whizzed past tall palm trees behind our house we called them out shaking our fingers at them ,thinking that little pieces of their milk-whiteness will somehow enter behind our pink fingernails .
We tried catching the water snake by its tail. It swished the tail and mock-bit us,making us think that we would soon be dead. The tamarind tree hosted hundreds of suicide-ghosts .At night little flickering flames floated in the air from out of the phosphorous bones of the dead .
Then a little bird flew over us, in our own sky, with its mournful cry . Our dear cousin looked up, lying sprawled on the bamboo stretcher, his eyeballs screwed up .The whites of his eyes were inexplicably opaque .Nobody told us why he would not come with us to hurl flat-stones on still water surfaces to make them frog-jump three times over.
The Morning is Just a Dream 