Monsoon over Majuli

The clouds come down the river first,
a grey procession, slow and wide;
the island holds its breath and waits
for water rising on each side.

The bamboo bends, the paddy drinks,
the satra drum begins to call,
and children race the falling rain
along the edge of the mud wall.

The river takes a little land
and leaves a little silt behind;
the island learns, as people do,
to lose, and still to keep its mind.