Each single spill of rain makes
many ringing water gongs on the pond,
and the calls of the crow are simply one gong
sounding after the other, circling wider
and farther, rippling the sky
above the rippled pond. Below, a toad bug
swivels near the shore, and many sand grains
shiver like cymbals with the force
of that mallet.
The bordering red clover is a gong too,
the way its ruby light spreads, stuns
and echoes in the eye, and the cowpen
daisy- those bold rays of reverberations
fly on and on, back to the sun.
The turning wind makes of every quaking
poplar leaf a gong. What a constant
confetti of green percussion that ensemble
of summer aspen creates on the bluff.
Coyote-calls and barkings interstice,
wildly over-ride, merge and shake again
with their own gongs this whining
and weaving design of gongs.
Breathe, breathe. Now the trembling
and drumming of the early moon spreads
through the tambourine thistles, swirls
the bee and beetle dust of the evening,
sizzles the whole heavens and zings
until all crystals of every sense
are struck and dizzy with its continual
white shimmerings.
Far away an electron at the edge
of a Sanctus is startled, twirled and redefined
by the solstice gong of the orbiting
earth announcing the first new prayer
of the next season.
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