Trees at Yelahanka Railway Station

They have neither doors
Nor thresholds.
The trees.
Crows, some fresh buds of a
dark floral pattern,
Perch on them.
The trees.

An evening train is yet to arrive,
Like a pair of scissors
Shearing through the wind,
Under the trees.

Crows smear
a passing cloud their wing color.
Pleased by breeze, they sway,
The trees.

They ponder lazily, immobile,
some nightly thoughts perhaps.
An occasional flap of wings, in
The trees.

The birds slip into sleep,
On trees that have neither doors nor thresholds,
Just as the train shears through
Dark patches, lit uncertainly
by the trees.

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