growing up in Goa

I remember the wind
conducting a soothing symphony
rustling leaves of huge mango trees
as we waited with breath bated
coconut frond torches in hand
eyes rubbed, sleep banished
in the dark just before dawn

every tree
had a name back then
they were part of our gang
to this day remembered
when our older selves meet
and look beyond our yard
the trees long gone now
the wind turns up
tad subdued now
we mourn our loss in silence

i remember the wind
blowing across the fields
on a hot summer day
cooling bodies
and tempers when the fish would not bite
and on other days bring a spring to our step
on the way back home
our bags full with a decent catch

the patterns it drew
on the water helped by the sun
the ripples it made on the water
erasing each pattern
creating a new one
an endless cycle of creation

the wind turns up
when we visit this sacred ground
whispering lessons
taught many moons ago
by my father
and his gang of four