Birds are golfers of heaven. They swing their
club-like wings and score their birdie and par
in treetop nests. A tree is a vertical golf course,
says the snake that gobbles up the egg. And a
grassland of highest branches— the Giraffe.
Watch closely. You can spot the Garibaldi beard
of their stooping caddies— the Bees. A human
sighting of trees is the wrong side of an arena,
the gloomy lower of a green turf. Their poets
stare at the underside and pine about seasons,
foliage, solitude, and thorns. But a tree is the
hardened cable of an elevator. In a netherworld
of downswing, they maintain heavens of glee.
Beneath ecstasies and pleasures, we operate
among seasoned roots and neurons of pain.
Aditya Shankar is a Best of the Net and Pushcart prize nominated Indian poet, flash fiction author and translator. Hailing from Bangalore, you can follow him on Twitter @suncave.