I went to the woods here on a recent Sunday morning with Buddy , as I did so often with Wrangler. We sat on the bridge, by a river bark tree where some of Wrangler’s ashes are scattered, and read one of Wendell Berry’s Sabbath poems.
Another Sunday morning comes
And I resume the standing Sabbath
Of the woods …
The mind that come to rest is tended
In ways that it cannot intend:
Is borne, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend.
Your Sabbath, Lord, thus keeps us by
Your will, not ours. And it is fit
Our only choice should be to die
Into that rest, or out of it.