The Gates of Heaven

The Gates of heaven are rusted. 

They have fallen off their hinges and are laying hidden in the tall grass.

The fence is down too. Rotted away.

It has been for thousands of years.

I look out over open rolling fields smelling of sweet timothy grass warmed by the sun.

Swallows slice the air with their scything wings, purple iridescent bodies skimming over endless green, darting in and out through dappled light among the trees.

Somewhere near those wildflowers, the soft hum of bees.

Light and shadow dance companionably to the music of the comfortable silence of a morning completely undisturbed by need.

Far in the distance, the violet mountains shoulder their silver banners of snow.

It’s so quiet.

It’s so still.

As the church so boldly guards the gates of heaven against those who would storm them, I wonder, which gates are they really guarding?

Surely not these.

It’s so quiet.

Where did everyone go?