He sat with the morning sun, with the cricket songs of late summer season that played day and night within surrounding fields. He sat with the vines, wet in after-rain, as droplets traced, beaded and fell downward from low tendrils and once-trumpet lily blooms brought to fruit by bees and beaks of hummingbirds drawn to their color, fragrance, and nectar—once-flowers now changed to full and swollen wombs of setting seed—interwoven across top frame of patio colonnade.
He stared on the sky, sun behind throne and crown of cloud, its gold shining from behind crown’s crest and breaks in spread over eastern sky.
The air was cool; its heaviness of before-humidity gone by rain’s release and fall.
A church bell rang six times, and after its sounding, the air remained in cricket song and canticles of stirring birds in praise of the waking day.
Staring still on the sky, crown of light breathed into greater golden glow. He observed, songs of life still singing as orb of light appeared, round and full upon the throne in rise to greater glory and ascent.
He observed the moment, observed the light, and prayed too that the Good his life was meant to share might rise and light the same.