Sukanya Menon
Lady of the Sycamore

Just as a young night reveals the wicked smile of a silver crescent moon, a sycamore tree, looming above the river, begins to shed its leaves. The susurration of the wind aids its plaintive cry, sending echoes of grief into black nothingness. The squirrels flee to the grass and the birds, to a willow tree on the opposite side of the riverbank. They know better than to stay around the sycamore at night. The river is awfully still, its water now a mirror reflecting starlight. The fallen leaves don’t float, instead, they sink into the river bed. The sycamore’s strangely coloured trunk emits a faint glow, its phosphorescent reflection dancing with moonlight trapped in dead water. On such nights, everything is animate and vibrant despite the dark. Suddenly, the wind stops blowing, lulling all creatures to sleep. The earth tastes of silence. As though waiting for this very moment, the sycamore begins to unwind its grotesque branches, its faint phosphorescence now obtaining a discernible hue. Silver wavelets form on the river’s black face, its glimmering outlines resembling a beautiful young maiden. The lady opens her opalescent eyes after a deep and dreamless slumber. She lets her hair loose as the sycamore drinks moonshine from a river bowl.