Strong, northwest breeze. The bamboo wind chimes are a soft clackety-clack behind the Solara bell tolling like a compulsive teacher ending recess at a one-room schoolhouse in a western I was never in. Next door, my neighbor's high tinkling bell signals Christmas in June; we're outside a department store surrounded by Salvation Army soldiers with sore elbows. My other neighbor has a metallic spiral that spins up and then somehow down, pushing the light toward heaven like a glowing Jacob's Ladder, and pulling it back down to the porch where 5 cats curl, too lazy to bother the bluejays today.
This is a granted wish. One I don't remember wishing.
I'm working on the thank-you note.