Early Prayers In a Small Town Park

Sunday in the dripping park baby gods are dozing in their cradles. Distant, white-walled churches rumble low and husky as voices rise and fall. Wet trees tremble and listen, tap into the echoing prayers sotto voce tidings bubbling up as a dab and dibble, as a mushrooming color.... could it be Autumn? Cradles are rocking swayed by a mothering earth. There's a fluttering in all this uttering green and pendulous arms lift to shake a leafy living into a deathless falling - a new renewing. The round suburban park circles the playing children like a puppy dog leaping through the leaves of the heaped and fallen and all the breeze-blown flights of this muted ebbing still yet to come.