I watch out of the window
this cold winter evening, alone
as the sun bids farewell
to the world for today
and the birds wave back;
but there aren’t a lot of birds anymore,
cityscapes have taken over
and the countryside is the
only host to landscapes.

I pull down the shades
pick some firewood, a book,
some music and my armchair.
I sit by the fireplace
stack the wood
and set it on fire.

The wood crackles
as I watch the fire burn
and I hear
the sound of my breath,
the sound of me turning pages
as some jazz raps up the ambience
for me and Kafka
to stay warm
by the fire.

Sometimes, my mind drifts off
to some faraway place,
lost in thought of
life’s espionage
and then the crackling wood
brings me back
to this place,
to the story’s page.

I can say,
there’s music in this fire
I hear it blending
with the jazz altogether
like,
the sax is the lead, and
the crackle is
the accompaniment,
playing in tandem
the symphony of fire.

Two hours later
the fire burns out
and the story ends
burning my boredom,
curiosity and tire,
leaving me to remember this day
as a day of solitary peace,
a cold evening of sunny warmth
that reinvigorated me
before I retire.

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© Barnadhya Rwitam