Don’t Knock

Some days we sound clear as bells,
Or at least as those weird tunes
Played on glass that let you know

Air’s a field with waves through it
And waves aren’t clear as all that,
Not in where each starts and stops.

Some days we’re just weird as cairns
Piled by the side of the road,
Who knows why. Some soul was bored,

Or thought the next soul to pass
Would be awed by the mute pile
Or spooked. Some days we’re like that.

Some days we live in the cairn
And play those stones like a harp.
Creep up on us then. We’re in.