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It comes hot and still.
For once the car alarms are silent,
For once the racers are some other place,
For once the screaming kids are not screaming,
For once all the car speakers have ceased rocking the mountains.
The leaves on the tiptop twigs move faintly in undetectable breezes.
All the world has hushed itself in some library of the cosmos.
Where is all this kindness the rest of the week?
As though born rude, all other days snarl, whine, berate, abuse.
Their voices are vociferous,
Mouths propped wide in offensive noise.
Other days assault the ears, assault the mind,
Plunge the living into cacophony and layer the dead with din on top of sod.
But on Sunday morning even the unresting scream is silent.
You can actually hear yourself think, and when you think it's quiet and
restful, recompense for the week's mental frenzy.
And all around there is the thick green paschal silence, the peace of the
resurrection.
