I am not Wendell Berry. Of course.
But a poet who sees and feels the goodness and beauty of a place should’ve been in my shoes two mornings ago. The air was cool as the sun was rising. And as I trudged across a closely cropped pasture, rich green with the arrival of spring, two Canadian geese flew directly over me. They were so close that I could hear their wings flap, even over their silly honking.
Surely someone could make a beautiful poem from that.
Wendell Berry could.
But I am not Wendell Berry.
Grace and Peace