Flare

For a moment the sun flares brighter, announcing progression from the early August Sunday morning to earnest August Sunday day. Men in fine department store suits and two-for-one ties sit on long wooden benches next to women in dresses either too thick for the season or too thin for church. Together they attempt attention as their thoughts roll over to-do lists, over-due bills and what might have been. The other half, the heathen half, sits on front porches drinking coffee and reading, or else lie late in bed still exhausted from last night’s guiltless sinning. They listen to lingering crickets, singing birds and gentle hums of a world at once woken and waking and asleep. The sun climbs higher, slips behind a cloud, returns the softness of earlier hours. The godless thank clouds for easing late summer’s heat, thank oaks and maples and pines for beauty, and celebrate another divine turning of the globe. No breeze rustles leaves on tall, old trees. An air-conditioner rattles to life, cars pass on the distant highway. An opening hymn finishes and the congregation takes its seats. Shadows grow bold and distinct with another flare of the sun, then fade.