Another day has ended

I read and write every day. I'm miserable if I don't. This, I know, will sound, very very strange, while I read and write but it's for a moment as if I've forgotten that there is anything beyond the here and now. Just as there exists in writing a literal truth and a poetic truth, there also exists in a human being a literal anatomy and a poetic anatomy. One you can see, one you cannot. One is made of bones and teeth and flesh; the other is made of energy and memory and faith. But they are both equally true.
Here at 7 o'clock in the evening, I realize this is how each day should end, in the fading sunset light, and my fingers still on the keys of my laptop…

The Peace of Wild Things

Stanley Park, Vancouver

The Peace of Wild Things —Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Erdman Berry, August 5, 1934, is an American novelist, poet, essayist, environmental activist, cultural critic, and farmer. Happy 82th Birthday!