Near a small village, not far from Bangalore,
I saw a king cobra flattened by a truck
and left to fatten the rush of red ants.

A baby cobra slid out from the wayside grasses.
It ran its delicate body up and down the corpse,
as if trying to coax it back to life.

All the world seemed stilled upon its axis.
Even the cicadas held their wings
in suspended animation.

Dust settled like a void.

Like a prism, each life reflects itself
in the dew’s microscopic mirrors.

Every death records the silence
of a single, astonished mourner.