Flying Fox

The flying fox startles me.
I have dropped my shadow.
I stoop to pick it up
from the evening asphalt.

In the purple dark,
I envisage all inkier shadows
as bats in the firmament.
Day four hundred and thirty seventh,
since the plague outbreak.

A few fruits fallen on the ground
smears smell across the road.
I look for more
bats; do not they denote change?

Summer is still early; trees mate
in the wind. The shadowy
winged cupids dart
from the branches to the branches.

I stroll into the smoke.
The flying fox may watch me upturned
walking inversed into past.

-Kushal Poddar