Sometimes the low-lying clouds are a call.
You've never heard it before.
It harrows through you like a train
but lingers even while it gathers itself
while it rushes.

Or a voice, so requiring of you to hear it
one minute it runs recklessly, a little boy,
it has no cares,
casting itself among the trees.
Then, stops all of a sudden
intent on play. You watch
as it takes each green into its hands,

as it turns each leaf over and over
until each is a small black bell.