In the cool, crispness of our sunny Sunday morning, I wandered out to the deck to check the newly arisen morning glory vines on their way up the path of strings laid out to train them into some sort of vine-like order. Tea cup in hand, I headed down the steps to a seat in the arbor.
An American goldfinch arrived on the rim of the bird bath, his bright yellow and black body alit for a moment, then flitted skittishly away at his awareness of my presence.
The wren, ah, they sang soprano and darted back and forth as wren are wont to do.
A male cardinal sat on a humble branch, in his royal red plumage, giving what sounded like a sermon.
A young buck, his antlers a mere suggestion, played shadow tag among the rays of sunshine in the trees further back.
In my arbor pew, I sipped my tea, steam drifting upward in the cool morning air, while the prairie grasses bowed with the reverence of prayer.
I finished my tea, whispered amen, and arose from my arbor pew. I walked away from this outdoor chapel and into the house, where I got ready for church, another sermon, and other distinctive voices in the choir of life.
It is good for the soul to begin one’s day on a wing and a prayer.