At one point there were so many butterflies
we were afraid of stepping on one. Imagine
the boot’s sudden crush on the thin chintz of
a wing, losing of a life at such a small scale
only the grain of the quartzite could hear it.
My friend tells me how the Aravallis were
born. The crystalline stone – an old witness
to a continent crumpling like paper to make our
home – now listening, intently, to the smallest
account of what makes all our living possible,
each day, without knowing, astray, a crushing
of something beautiful, then a turning away.
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