This morning, almost in spite of myself, hearing church bells riding the winds, I wonder how many centuries the chimes have enchanted the land
and hearing plainchant glide on the rising gusts I feel time become timeless: hypnotic priests intoning their triune God for hours and hours
with prolonged Amens. The island’s olives and pines, white-washed walls and dark blue blinds threaded with the purple syntax of perpetual psalms
and I, who no longer believe in the efficacy of prayer, yield for one instant . . . for one moment, half incline, listen to an older scale, breathe in consecrated air,
half-whisper Credo, pause.