Birdsong trickles in like eardrops.
I get up, get dressed,
In the distance, through the mist of dawn I see
an Indian in white squatting by the river taking a shit.
I read this scene
in Naipaul’s harsh writings on India
ages ago -
a row of Indians
squatting by the river taking a shit,
shitting while chatting
as if hobnobbing.
So I widen my eyes,
crane my neck,
keen to see more shitting people,
only to discover
I saw wrong.
There is no Indian in white squatting by the river,
just a white egret,