There’s a swell in the yellow assembly:
bamboos rustle and hush, unable
to contain their giggling at the wind’s rush
as huddled and prone to sway
as teenage girls – I am almost jealous
of these young trees at the edge of the garden
skimming stone and sky, knees
knocking in the breeze, called to attention
by some imaginary headmaster.

Everything is oscillatory – their bouts
of flurry mutable as cloud cover
ever under watching eyes,
the peeking sun a pendulum:
a shiver grows at each blink.
The skies shut – seized by a sleep
that ambushes the stalks
at unpaced intervals of shadow.

I think there is a dissonance
to their delight in dusk,
to this anticipation of nightfall.

I think also that the trees
(unlike girls) have no need
to be afraid of the dark.∎

Words by Devi Sastry. Photography by Emma Rath.