The man uncurled his fingers and looked at his palms.
Bells. There were bells, tubular ones
resting there, instead of his bag of secrets.
The rain still poured down on the mountainside,
yet the clouds were below him, not above.
His hand twitched, and he fell forwards
into the long grasses, through soil and rock
until he could not be told apart from it all.
The bells clattered to the ground, ringing
out for the valley to hear. The rain
stopped at the sound of those bells.
Those tubular bells igniting the day.
Treeshallow Musings 