On a morning...

Behind the temple spire
Birds flew.
Chased by the early Sun
The Birds flew.
The City was still yawning,
Misty naked lanes,
The moon pale blue.

The immense drunk river
Faded boats and old crows,
Grim gods and
Bathing pujaris
He knew them
She knew.

February Sun on
Their heads
In their fists
The icy breeze
The earthen cups
The molten tea,
The nervous vapours
They knew.

Lame rickshaws
Her playful dupatta
His lanes and his smile
Their nascent dawn
Bleary-eyed
The Ganges gulped
before they knew.