The scent of leaves sounds a sharp breeze, 

Skipping over the jagged rocks

Of a desert forest. 

It threatens to how, but keeps a steady passing whine,

For now. 

The needles smell of birds chirping,

And heavy, fruit hanging palm trees

Above the still water

Of the oasis.

Here whining wind is absent, and is replaced

By low, humid air. 

The crinkling looks a pale blue seas,

Marked by caps of white, endlessly rolling and crashing

Over sand and stone.

The Bell's ring feels a smooth, edgless boulder, 

Warm to touch from that eye's rays, 

Worn down by years

Of flying fragments.