the peace of wild things.

by 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.

i don't have much wild space here,

but for now, a hot mug of tea in a hipster cafe

or pupusa at a taqueria

will have to suffice.

(and prospect park's not bad, either.)