Soundings

Street noises pierce the open window screen.
Bird songs punctuate engine grind.
A centuries old bronze bell rings the faithful to church.

Paul plays an Irish tin whistle.
His breaths and stops.
The barely discernible tap of his fingers upon the holes.

Rain falls on the mountain top too far away to be heard.
And so the cloud pushing wind.
And the vibration of sun rays heating the atmosphere.

The pump of blood thumps arteries and veins.
Run-on thoughts bang the brainpan.
A stirring of fiction for self-amusement.

The footsteps of ghosts upon the carpet.
The call of the wild for the prayer of my attendance.
The waft of the first golden leaf to fall.

The gentle slap of shoe laces as they form bows.
The creak of the chair as it ejects this body’s weight.
A mechanical rustle when the door nob turns.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

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