ON THE CHURCH O THE ISLAND

ON THE CHURCH O THE ISLAND, it is a good Sunday morning, drenched in bird songs. It was the loons along the shore who awakened me, but I was late—far too late to see the sun edge over the horizon. The white-throats and song sparrows had long been lofting their morning arias. The crows were caterwauling, the red squirrels trilling

Church O The Island

AT THE CHURCH O THE ISLAND, green things grow. A mama merganser clucks from the shoreline. Birds sing from leafy bowers. A light wind ruffles the lake and wavelets chuckle among the rocks. Pine bows nod and aspens shiver. The sun charts its course across the morning sky. And one notices, absentmindedly at first, how many things are good and