Bells clang with dissonant fury,
they rattle the cracked foundation
upon which the church sits.
Thirteen lamp oil birds take lift
and scatter. The cacophony acting
as hands, throwing feathers and
feces out of the old tower.
The judges house leans a little more
to the left now, as it always
seems to at noontime.
The owner of the pub knocks
his sign back into place with his
knobbled cane.
The rocking chair tilts a bit further
back as the old lady finishes
her last stitch.
The children exit the schoolhouse.
None of them notice the blood,
or how the preacher slumps against
his chair, face pressed to the pages
of revelation.