in a gravel pit. It sits in the shade of a rock
at five in the afternoon.
To a front end loader it is foreign.
Mice would not be caught dead here.
The bus does not come by.
No-one would think of looking here or find it
if they did. It must be stumbled on, a few inches
from a stray hiker’s boot.
Lifted the brass bead dances even though it’s chained.
This bell fits in the palm of a hand or hangs from a shoelace
but here the bead’s laughter
will echo against scorched stoneslike a waterfall.
(published in Grain, Volume 31, No. 2, Fall 2003)