The trees in the backyard br were all talking, br a prayer meeting of elders. br They looked down below, br surveying the space surrounding them. br Branched bowing low to the ground br then stretching up tall again, br scraping the edges of the sky br whispering into the wind. br The sound was a form of worship, br a pine psalm. br It swirled along the trails of twilight, br sanctifying a Spring evening br with its symphony. br The trees tossed back their heads. br Mockingbirds and starlings scattered, br sending needles sailing. br A slow and soft rain br swooping and spiraling down, br settling upon the altar br - Earth's breast, br settling among the azalea roots br the emergence of iris and indigo, br settling into a stillness br surrounding a Sunday.br br W.I.