The Little Myna

The sun sinks low behind the rice,
painting the terraces gold and precise.

The Little Myna, white as chalk,
lifts from a branch and starts to walk.

He glides above the stepping green,
the quietest fields he's ever seen.

Past a temple gate, carved and old,
its stone still warm from the sun's last gold.

A small bell rings from the temple square,
then fades to nothing on the evening air.

A little gecko clicks from a wall,
then goes quiet, and that is all.

He passes frangipani, white and sweet,
their petals soft beneath his feet.

The volcano rests against the sky,
its peak now dark as the light slips by.

He settles low in a banyan tree,
tucked in leaves, just him, sleepily.

And now it's time, my little one,
to rest like he has, day is done.

Wrapped up warm and snug and tight,
Bali whispers... goodnight, goodnight.