It's nine o'clock on Sunday and I hear the bells.

A chill pervades the breezy air.

The sky is clear and already a bright eyed blue.

The dutiful head off involuntarily

To check in at their local Sunday schools.

I'm coming out of an urban grocery store.

I bristle at the cold,

Wondering for whom, for what, those church bells toll,

If they ring today a happy, or a somber word?

The sky is huge. The steeple insignificantly fades from view

Against the colossal firmament.

As I pan the heavens blue,

I see the piercing winds have taken one wispy cloud

And formed an enormous ghostly Thunderbird out of it,
Just above the steeple.

-jenn