Smile

I listened to the jungle, but it talked very little this morning.

The babblers, the monkeys, the cicadas, and the crickets seemed to be silent most of the time.

And I saw this big smiling face. It did not exist days before yesterday, but will sure to continue smiling in the future.

I realized then that the smile did the talk actually. And what a wonderful silent talk.

As I Am

Not all are annoyed by loneliness, this butterfly does.

It moves higher low, higher high, lower low, lower high and continues in an uneasy pattern.

It is doubtful about me in the surroundings. It shows all its mimicked eyes.

Oh no, I am not the messenger of loneliness.

Not all are annoyed by loneliness.

A treehopper is more philosophical. It cogitates about an answer in the midst of swinging leafy branch.

It moves higher low, higher high, lower low, and lower high following the surrounding pattern.

I am a nobody.

Not all are annoyed by loneliness.

Am I seeing things as I am?

When A Mushroom Is Not A Mushroom

When a mushroom is not a mushroom, and when is not a mushroom is a mushroom.

When a mushroom starts to talk to me, and when one of them shows me a V sign.

I feel like the mushroom is me and I am the mushroom; I listen to the movement of soil, breathing of ants, and breaking down of fallen leaves.

And the mushroom will come back during the weekends begging me to return it its body.

“I would rather be a mushroom!” It will then say, “I belong to Nature.”

Let My Hair Down

Let’s take a post break from Cerok Tokun, though nobody will ever get tired with her, physically or mentally, soaked or bored. She is always my weekend lover.

I have my weekday lovers, at home.

One of them let me dwell under its vine tree, although life with her tastes very sour.

Another offer me a bitter bite, but keep reminding me about the silver lining of every cloud.

The third that looks hairy and odd is usually a joker who sweets and sours me from time to time.

Someone said, "There are many pretty ladies but we can only be in love with one; so powerless."

I do not quite agree with this.

A Trick

This must be a trick.

The fern leaves have dyed themselves golden yellow into which a Stripe-throated bulbul merges itself so well. It then tries to perch quietly to trick me, but the big brother unintentionally discloses its position: the bulbul has to avoid itself repeatedly from the glaring sunlight.

This must be a trick in the morning. Nature always wants to play games with me. I am smart enough this time to spot the bulbul.

This makes me feeling very great, no matter of the smallness of the success.