It's 9 am. The church bell tower announces the beginning of the catholic Mass. I can hear it's ferverence from my seat overlooking the soccer field. Today, i congregate with the disciples that are my town's soccer fans. The other church. It's the middle of the regular season. As i live in a populated volcanic valley, there are many teams. I know most of the men on the team in the red jerseys. And one of their players greets me with a smile. I nod my hello, at the same time acknowledging my allegiances.
It's a beautiful morning. A perfect temperature. Children laugh. Boys pick on each other. The volcano sits in the distance, clouds loitering above him like smoke pouring out of a high rise.
The good guys win. 3-2.
And the clouds have dissipated, leaving the volcano in seemingly smoldering ruins, like a morning well lived.
1 comment:
Thanks for the posting.
That same morning, on the eighth hole at Welshire, I heard loud bells, and commented to my group 'what a loud ice cream truck.' I was gently corrected, reminded that it was Sunday, church bells.
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