A cackle of geese far receding
as if trying to escape the hot
wind that rushes upon them
is now let loose over the arid
plains now devoid of water.
With lips parched and shriveled skin
every now and then, a farmer
with a sweating brow looks
up to the sky to deliver for he
cannot bear the earthly pangs.
On the lookout to wet their thirst
Hark, they say, is it thunder?
whenever they hear large sounds
in the distance that turn out to
be a mirage as the birds arrive.
It is the Indian summer no doubt
conditions dreaded by many a traveler
as it seldom leaves you from clutches
that are humid and hot that you cry
and pray for the monsoon to arrive.