All morning, fitting myself
to the frame. Gray granite.
The fixed face.
Below, in high pasture,
one cow, one bell—
bronze, hand-hammered,
worth more than the beast
that bears it. Bong
Weight on her neck.
Her work, wearing it.
From the valley—
another. From the south
face—another.
And another.
The whole cirque
ringing now, a hundred
bronze throats
telling where,
singing here,
and I—
no longer
holding myself
against the stone.
Just small.
Just breathing.
The bells,
the bell-sound,
the air between bells
moving through me
the way I was always
this small, this
open to being
rung.
