Wind

it must be blowing from the west, or it could be the north, south, or east
but any way, from wherever, it curls around and between the trees
taps the book
and conducts the chimes

hardly an effort required, it seems, to fill the woods with song
and free to all who listen, and gather, with ears of skin and fur and feather
we all hear, and sometimes
still resonation

it makes no sense, and I much prefer it this way
as random notes seem at once not so random after all
and at once
eyes and cheeks go strangely warm

 

bn