This great river has been put back to right. The human celebration of every summer holiday stirs it up into a heaving boil but it always mends itself back to natural. It’s right now, quiet, smooth and even the littles among the world, like the sweat bee on my computer with its iridescent wing, can enjoy its garden again. A wedded bluebird is feeding his bride, the herons glide by, the deer feed in the shallows, and somewhere across toward the islands a goose is trumpeting. It is quiet as the earth can be filled with harmony and sweet peace. Lying beside me is The Ancient Text, a soothing primer to it all, the Garden Almanac by God. There’s a woodpecker’s rhythm, a fish breaks free of his water bonds and overhead a tiny plane; “a safe journey” I pray. In the garden we have time for gratefulness of all kinds, even wings, those of the sweat bee and the Piper Cub.
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