I remarked to a friend, in jest, that if I went camping in the
Great Rann of Kutch,
nobody might ever hear from me again, but I'd die happy if there were
larks singing (the Rann is known to host more than a dozen species of
larks). She responded by sending me the following Haiku (which I had
never read, and which nobody seems to know the original author of):
Small bird forgive me,
I'll hear the end of your song
In some other world
How astonishingly apt.