Night of the Dhole

A whistling scream.

When mist falls on the forest
and the silvery meadows,
deer turn their heads
and dart into the trees.

Peacocks scatter
into the undergrowth.
The last brave sambar
stands in the grass,
spying the forest's edge.

Screams echo.
The sambar takes flight.
A single dhole emerges
from the trees,
with white teeth bared
and a coat of red fur.

The pack scourges the meadows -
infiltrates the forest
as the night draws in.
Wolves flee
from their hungry growls
and voracious yapping.

Somewhere in the darkest tangle
of bamboo thickets, a sleeping tiger
hears the whistling pack
and twitches.

Feathers and Scales

In the early morning at Bhimpur village,
a peacock sits resplendent and glittering
in the red sun on a dry stone wall.
His emerald feathers sleep in his tail.
He snaps his head sideways
at a shape in the gloom under
the wall of a silent mud hut.

The cobra twists
over pots and baskets after
the scent of careless rats.
The cobra did not think
that she might be slithering
towards the shadow
of a far from ornamental bird.

The snake was unaware that she might meet
the god of war's chariot drawer
next to a stone hut,
for on the back of the cobra's hood
is the mark of her own divinity.
Perhaps the vicious bird missed it.
A sharp flicker in the peacock's blazing eyes,
a flutter of royal blue feathers
and the reptile murderer strikes
too soon for the cobra to sprout her hood.

Claws, which yesterday danced for a mate
tear at scales.
For all the peacock's cold savagery,
the cobra's scales serve it well.
The snake darts back to the hole.
The surprised bird takes off
as his enemy disappears underground,
and the ringing cry of the incensed bird
echoes through the sleeping forest.

(This poem is set in a small village in Kanha National Park, and features a phrase which caused chaos when it was first read by my peers. See if you can guess which phrase it is.)