Monday, January 12, 2015
They come singly, the little streams,
Out of their solitude. They bear
In their rough fall a spate of gleams
That glance and dance in morning air.
They come singly, and coming go
Ever downward toward the river
Into whose dark abiding flow
They come, now quieted, together.
In dark they mingle and are made
At one with light in highest flood
Embodied and inhabited,
The budded branch as red as blood.
~ Wendell Berry
from This Day - Collected & New Sabbath Poems