hecatedemeter

Sometimes, I feel so tender about the world.  I mean about the mayflies, and the rockfish babies, and the fox with her kits, and the butterflies in British forests, and the woodpecker hunting for her young, even when what she hunts are baby birds in other nests.

Yes, yes, it’s absolutely true that, like the estimable  Mr. 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

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