it is quiet
there is the soft-sound of air
moving through fan-blades
the quiet hum of its motor
turning
I hear a choir of monks singing the liturgy
it is nine o’clock in the morning
the hour is Terce
the coffee in my cup is warm
there is a coal burning in the ashtray
smoke drifting from the bright-end
of a marijuana cigarette…commercial hemp
woodpecker knocks on a tree
the sound comes through the window
with the cool, summer-morning-breeze
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