Upon century-old porch, amid soft light of morning’s dawn, white wicker rocker rocks. Its elder occupant, buffeted by winds of seven decades, surveys quiet city blocks. No breath of air moves leaves—no creatures stir. Even birds cease their flutter, all quietly to demur. Then, melodious, rhythmic chimes of Basilica’s church bells break silence. Chimes echo, throaty peels of spiritual message, away in fog-shrouded distance. God-like presence shakes an old man to the quick, his future uncertain to foretell. All stands eerily quiet, except for glorious sound of chiming church bell. If old man, can but listen, he will hear a friend’s voice—his Angel beckons. Now, sunlight glimmers through withered leaves of Fall—as he rocks, and silently reckons. Light now grows bright, rays piercing dense cover of trees, as morning fog begins to lift. Suddenly, a craggy old man’s mind invigorates—now, no longer just adrift. Across street, within old man’s gaze, stately tall sycamore trees hold answer alright. Seasons, like man’s years, come and go—giving sheer delight. Sycamore’s leaves grow strong, and green in Spring—only to wither, and later fall. Future new leaves come, as old leaves surrender—a process, man can’t forestall. It’s not unlike paths man follows—God’s plan, not man’s to shape. We wander lost, sometimes weary—seldom if ever, finding full escape. Yet, with energy and passion, we find a consequential path to take. Life’s contribution appears before us—the choice, ours alone to make. So, an old man peers out, better years of life quickly waning—but, still not gone. His Angel beckons, and he listens—then, apparition, like fume of smoke, melts into dawn. Life moves steadily onward—yet, steadfast, he remains unshaken. Basilica’s bells continue their toll—and, old man, the city, and the world, awaken. By: James Funk August 2016