Poetry

The sun hangs orange red
for moments
like the smashing sound of a gong
in the air
before it becomes white hot,
 
the screaming of plovers hover
long and stretched out
just as if somebody
has discovered their nests
 
and the black-collard barbet knocks
outside on the window
as if it wants to come in
 
and while I am still laying in bed
the world turns
and the new morning starts
outside around me.