I made myself some tea, and I stood at the window... the April morning Sun shone straight on my face, the rays finding their way through the dense foliage in front of me... I was lucky today that I felt the morning rays, as the trees that have grown taller than my building usually end up cutting off the Sun...
Oh.. and then comes my feathered buddy... he hops from one branch to another, as he cannot fly, and lands on my window sill... I can't tell how glad I am to see him everyday... but this time, I am really missing someone a lot... someone whom I eagerly await, through the whole of monsoon and the Winter seasons... Come March and he used to arrive, with a shrill call... and me as a child used to jump out of bed and run towards the window and try and search for him... to catch just one elusive glimpse of him...
He had never failed in showing up through all these years.. I tried hard, and over the years I managed to learn his language, not literally, but phonetically... And I loved to play with him, tease him, frustrate him with my replies... till he was fed up and he conveyed the same to me with the tone that I could never match... But this time its different... Like a fool, I let out a call out of my window... or when I am walking on the street... people look at me in amusement, sometimes they think its his call... But I think I have mad him angry... sometimes I go too far ahead in teasing someone, but I swear I will stop it, if only you show up this one last time before I fly away across the oceans...
And I hope you will miss me then, this human letting out the cuckoo call....
O blithe newcomer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.
Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my schoolboy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed birth! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place,
That is fit home for Thee!
-- William Wordsworth