Bells
I woke to cathedral bells.
There are no pealing bell towers
in the swamp unless you count
the percussion of feathers, hawks
and swallow-tail kites and the
resounding ones of turkey vultures
soaring in groups of 50 or more
up the thermals, riding high in this
death ballet before the hunt.
No, I have an alarm clock that rings
church bells which I seldom hear as
I am already awake, listening to
morning sounds, the droning of time
in these few moments life has
allotted me to be me, in a present
that feels like forever and years
that seem long like an afternoon
must to a life thirsty mayfly.
My antennae are up listening
for the taste of things,
the morning yawns of birds,
the sleepy harrumphs of frogs
as they settle in for the day, the
rolling moisture of ocean-fed fog,
the shape of your words as they
fly to me like a swirling gnat cloud
or a flock of dancing swallows
that explode on the screen.
I smile. Life smiles back.
© Zen Oleary
June 18, 2004
