it's hot out there

It’s hot out there

With scattered trees; most of them leafless

There is not a lot of green

Brown mostly

Dried grass and dried trees

A lone anthill

A fallen tree right outside the hockey pitches

It’s vast too

It stretches beyond view

It must be hot out there

I would not know

I look from the 2^nd floor of my library cubicle

Air conditioned, well lighted

Tiled floors, glass doors

A work of art really

Fine smoothened study table and chair

Mahogany I think

I open the glass window

It’s slightly covered with dust

Someone should attend to that

It must be hot out there

Because in the distance I see a gleam

It has stopped…the gleam

Oh there it goes again

There is a figure too

Oh yes, it is a man…or a woman

Too far to tell

With a slasher

Slashing the dead dried brown grass

Swing swing swing

His or her swing is constant

Musical in a way, poetic

He stops every now and then; or she does

Places his or her hands on their waist

I can only guess that he walks around

Sweaty face, dried lips, for shade; or she does

There is none, not anywhere close

For the trees are scattered, and dry, and leafless

Without shade

‘He’ bends holding, holding his knees with both arms

One hand on each knee

Without putting down his slasher

Abit later ‘he’ raises walks one, two, three steps

Gets back to his slashing

I get back to my tiled floor, and glass doors

Air conditioned and well lighted

Smooth table and two chairs

I have two chairs I notice

It must be hot out there