"Sunday," by Thomas Barthauer

First there came the sound of ringing bells.

A tumult of glory.

A rising sound of joy in the far, far echoing

distance.

The slamming of fresh-cleaned car doors,

gleaming,

scaring the birds,

waking the dogs from their lazy time in the sun.

Two kids on the bikes their grandparents bought,

racing around a traffic cone.

A honk.

Red lights gliding through a golden world.

A buzzing streetlamp standing stoic and alone.

And through the dark, dark woods a man is whistling the tune his father taught him,

while cold October blows in from the west.