Doorbells Twinkle In the Door Less

A banjo is playing in the bodega. A door proclaims its ding and dong voltaic birds bounce to its tintinnabulum, flickers of auricular featherings wipe shelves of a million years of dust. The banjo is at prayer and you are there as you peal with its cadence and quiver. The bodhisattva they that dynamo the sonic tides, the waves, air waves, sounding and soundless, who sparkle in the high deep heavens and in the low wallows where ankles are the muddy roots of wind chimes and cow bells. Sounds unleashing the knelling thunder of peace. Alabaster hands poised in mid-air signaling an elemental perfection. The kinetics of gesture and stillness, as doors open their choiring mouths, as banjos mimic the sounds of all practicing avatars, and we hearing only the ding yet missing the dong unthinking un-ring Gods temple gong.