Do they know it’s Sunday?

Fairest of fair, a blue sky soaring, circling, winging, singing overhead with just a few light touches of white, spun out and stretched wide, and planes silently leaving their spun trails.  The sun is surprising the houses just beyond and tickling their roofs, and soon it must tumble over and find me waiting here in shadow.  It is so still when yesterday the wind was so fervent. <!--break--> The trees take it, the remembered rough embrace, the present elegance. 

There are birds, flying through the blue with purpose, visiting trees, singing to each other.  None are eating the berries that hang in bright red brooches on the rowan tree today.  Do they know it’s Sunday?  Can they sense the lessening of noise and rush out on the streets?  Does the worship of a thousand churches fill the air with the gold of holy spirit to gild their flight and stroke their feathers?  Or is it we who are gilded by their song, shining our space, filling our days with the perfume of praise?  And the trees, how they worship with arms held high, or leaves tossed to earth in surrender.  It is their presence of peace we draw hungrily into our lungs as we walk through woods, through fields, through gardens.  They are our air, we dance and weave lives in their fullness.

If we live with feet touching ground and heart held high, with peace in our purpose and the beauty of knowing God in our smile, we too can be air for others to live in that fullness.