It sounds like a cowbell
clattering and clanking
us awake
there in that dark hall
before dawn.

Moving quickly,
except maybe the new ones,
who in uncertainty,
their minds rebelling
against the insane
clock,
flounder vacantly,
like fish in the shallows,

the bedding gone,
the cushions arranged
just so,
we sit and sway
and breathe
and wait.

In a moment
you hear the door open,
and the tell tale way
he slips across the floor,
as everything else
becomes quiet.

There are still a few crickets,
grinding away
out in the wood,
and the cool breath
of the last of the night's wind
cleanses itself
across tired faces.

Hearing him again,
knees going to the floor
once, twice, a third time,
his robes rustling quietly,
you wonder
where the crickets went.

Taking a breath,
sitting up straight,
as John might say,
to see how different the view is
from anywhere
other than beneath the floor,

the thought occurs,
how young they are,
these new ones,
with minds so fresh
there's no chance
for clouds and pain
to take root,

as the Abbot moves quietly to the last cushion
and then makes his morning rounds
around the room,

and as feet slip along
the wood floor
you bow
in gratitude
for the chance
here in the dark
to come awake
as he passes,
before turning again
to the crickets,
who so graciously
waited
until the bell,
before again resuming
their own
morning chant.

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