The sun wakes, breaking the rim of the earth and Iowa and points over and toward a freckled yellow tree. A tortured misunderstood color or a glorious one that verily blooms vibrant in the sun before any others have a chance at revelation? As if Autumn Yellow were queen, a lady at peace before her king of Spring. The spotlight on her she rules and sings and cries out and maybe she always has?
Like most I wasn't listening. I didn't notice she was coming until she'd arrived.
Yellow. To torture me or please me I noticed the Sabbath maple lift her worship. The yawning sun touches the others like her and they step into view, their branches and fingers open and Praise! Oh Praise! I am here!
I love the choir.