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Sunday in the Park The mystical oak has towered over a hill longer than any living memory like a regal sentry. She stretches out even branches, a welcome mat, for the passing hawks and owls like a perfect host. She claps her leafy hands to entertain howling coyotes like a happy mother. She keeps watch over the fog taking in a morning nap before sailing off on a sunlit ray like a forgiving friend. She marks everyday as Sabbath in her canopy like a beloved peacemaker. She kisses the enamored sun, then drops a leaf in his honor every evening like an obedient disciple. She stands her ground in dry springs and tends wildflowers at her rooted altar like a dutiful bridesmaid. She offers acorns as gifts to all, giving her mite in the holy of holies like a generous widow. At her sanctuary all pilgrims are blessed. In her shadow all our souls find rest. By her feet, silent, unbridled songs of gratitude for this wonder of creation rise easily into the air she gives us to breath. Our mother, friend, and disciple, the incarnation of love.