Moring glory

My skyline is made of branches not buildings. The branches reach up and up like bony fingers stretching for the light of heaven. I walk beneath 11 Oak Trees ever morning, bare now and vulnerable. I worship them. Fall colors come late here, after Christmas usually. It’s a delight to see the oranges, yellows and reds of the Bradford Pear, Red Maple and Cottonwood trees popping out against the evergreens. It’s musical like a baby’s laughter peeling through church. The Oak Trees have dropped their leaves by now and each has flat rings of orange and brown leaves in a wide circle around their trunks. I walk off the sidewalk and through the leaves, hearing them crunch under my feet and kicking up my steps a bit, turning around to see the little path I’ve made through them. I worship this too. I look up to the sky to see the lace patterns the bare branches make. The sunrise is strips of orange and pink across the soft cotton gray blue. A few leaves hang on to their branches and dance in the breeze up there. They seem to be stars, alone and bright. There is no death, there is no ambition, only seasons. This makes me smile; this is a prayer.