Holy is the Morning

This morning's sky was scabbed over with gray cloud, but there were cracks that let the sun bleed through. And as I drove across the lake the light rained down in streamers to strike hard and spray back into the air like foam at the bottom of a cataract. It was the kind of light you imagine with scenes of angels and saints, and in the distance I saw a shadow that I first took to be a hill where no hill should be. Then I realized that I was seeing a pair of shrimp boats anchored close together and still on the surface, with masts feeling up into the light. There were three masts, and an image came unbidden. Three crosses on another hill, on Golgotha. After Christ and the criminals had been taken down. It had been a long time since I thought of the crucifixion; I was raised Catholic but haven't been to church in many years. But no matter your beliefs, or lack thereof, sometimes the morning is holy.