Bell Fountainhead
Sunday, October 1st, 20007:46 PM, and the air is cool indigo — deepened by the sound of crickets and the oceanic susurration of the highway. My iced tea is sweating in its glass, ice cubes clinking. I can hear the bell fountainhead in the fish pond: a soft whispery trickling.
It has been months. I know.
Do you like the velvety sound of skin on skin? Or the vague distant roar of a passing airplane? The thump of the surf is sweet, but also lovely is the shimmering sound of waves trailing back over wet sand, returning to the sea.
Time could be imagined to have soft lips, curved into a subtle smile.
This Sunday evening is cool and calm. The machinery in the dishwasher contains a miniature ocean, industriously swirling. Attentive-yet-sleepy, is the sound of the fan in my computer: the auditory equivalent of a motion-filled dream.
Those warm lips could whisper. So close to your ear that the words are a touch.
I am going to drink my tea and read short stories. At the deeper end of this Sunday night, I am looking forward to hearing Kelli’s voice in my ear. And of sleeping smoothly — to a bright and productive Monday. But, before all that, I might go outside for a bit. And feel the air on me.
What would time whisper? Perhaps one word:
October.
— JWR, 10/1/00