Night Scene

The sun makes it a habit of setting quickly in the winter. the worst of the season has passed.  Only a cool breeze floats by every now and then.  Trees are still barren of their leaves.  Their naked limbs leave a silhouetted impression against the setting sun and lingering city lights. In the hard wind of dead winter they give the impression of an ominous haunting.  They leave one with the feeling of loneliness and depression, but not now. 

 Now the trees have found beauty in their nakedness. The simplicity of creation is upheld in God's most unfeeling season.  Stripped bare of all lavishness there lies the true beauty and greatness beneath the foliage: endurance and strength.  They form the outline of the setting sun. Images of a hot burning sahara and umbrella trees reinforce the scene before my eyes.  Leafless trees mimick the umbrella trees burned into my cerebellum from years of National Geographic.  Underneath it all, the British man's heavy accent slowly narrates the african scene and even the one before me.  

Barely a minute, yellow becomes gold and orange until the sky's canvas is cloaked in hues of purple and finally night sky. From my window tree limbs shake with the wind. Like a tortured soul they point to the one lone star that appears in the sky.  Knowlege tells me the star is a planet, not too far from our own. However the trees disagree.  "Here, here," They whisper, "Here is our hope above the sky."