Yesterday was Independence Day. We celebrated it at the farmers market.
It was a fine day, and I felt no desire to improve upon it. But had I spent some of it in the woods, I surely would have enjoyed it even more.
by Wendell Berry
Between painting a roof yesterday and the hay
harvest tomorrow, a holiday in the woods
under the grooved trunks and branches, the roof
of leaves lighted and shadowed by the sky.
As American from England, the woods stands free
from politics and anthems. So in the woods I stand
free, knowing my land. My country, tis of the
drying pools along Camp Branch I sing,
where the water striders walk like Christ,
all sons of God, and of the woods grown old
on the stony hill where the thrush’s song rises
in the light like a curling vine and the bobwhite’s
whistle opens in the air, broad and pointed like a leaf.