By Mike McQuillan Tree’s lean limb splits rain. Pulsing branches withstand wind.Wing chair beckons my slim form to slide inside its pale blue frame for peace. Meditation’s softened eyes caress nature’s arts. Trusted time sifts passing thought,Extracts city noise this Sabbath. Engines roar; jet creases sky.Car door slams. Tenacious neighbor vacuums corners, bangs.Foot-race runners’ strides…