The sunlight beams, burns its way to a second story balcony. To the left, a darkened door juxtaposed a soft sea of yellow. An iron fence is to the right and to the front. Its rods twisted, upright soldiers barring the way. Faithfully keeping passersby from wandering down the ridged, terra cotta roof and crashing into the riotous colors of the courtyard below, they stand steadfast. The sunlight bores into them, heated fingers unrelenting.
She warms the upturned face of an intercessor, kneeling toward the town. She touches the weathered rooftops, their faded terra cotta and metal faces shimmer in her heated caress. On the street, futbol jerseys wave, toyed with by the breeze. Italy, Madrid, and Honduras, hanging in solidarity from the eaves, wait to be worn again. Open windows, gray and frameless, stare back across the cobbled street at the sun touched balcony. The church bells sing, eleven drifts across the town to land in the ears of the intercessor.
Ten more minutes pass, time stopping for no one. The moment is gone, the work is done. God bent His ear to the balcony. He listened to the silent cries of a small army of intercessors from around the courtyard. For the moment, their work is done, the seeds planted. The intercessor’s face and arms are colored by the sunlight’s persistent hands. An intercessor stands, back turns to where the sunlight beams, burns its way to a second story balcony.
