Sunday mornings are a world unto themselves. Perfection. A silence descends on the town and, for one day, one morning, surrenders the stage to nature. It is a reverence created not of religion; a holiness greater than humanity itself. Today, the birds sing in an uncontested chorus. The Mountain preaches a wordless message to all from it's pulpit of peaks. The Sun radiates praise in streaming rays of pixelated warmth. This is divinity. An entire host of pine green angels and red bark reaching upward. Heaven is not on the pages of a leather bound book. It is here. Outside my window at the busy bird feeder. It is the crunch of the hard packed dirt road that wanders to the house. It is the red adobe that captures the heat and holds it lovingly for those who wish to rest in peace against it's walls. The eternal lies between the creamy dotted wingspan of the Red-Tailed Hawk above and the tiny purple flowers that carpet the budding earth, heralding the beginning of spring. This is paradise. This is the blessing of Sunday mornings.
Little Girl Big Sky 