If I sit still and cease this tapping of the keyboard my mind is filled with ticks. I have three clocks in the shop. Two in my office and a third on the main floor. One is located directly behind my head upon a low shelf. Its an old Westclock of cream with a gold band around its face, a Big Ben model of unknown vintage. I give her a twist twice a day, gently. She's load.
Between me and the main floor, just above and in front of my desk hangs another large faced clock, a gift from a now deceased friend. I don't like it, yet there it hangs with its moment by moment indications of time. Its face has birds instead of numerals. A House Wren is forever preached at 1600. I'm locked between the Audubon monstrosity and the grace of the classic Westclock.
So here I sit between the tick, tick, tick. If I listen carefully the lone timepiece from the shop's floor intrudes too. Its white dial is fed daily by signals far away. It keeps perfect time. She keeps a steady beat, the drummer to a band of three, as each marks the moment to the end of my life.