Sabbath Poem XI, 2003
by Wendell Berry
It is late November, Thanksgiving,
and the slow rain falls all day
as it has fallen. The mists drift
in the treetops along Camp Branch.
The ewe flock grazes the green slope
as in a dream of a painting
by Samuel Palmer. There is no wind.
It is completely quiet. From the distance
comes only the sound of the branch
flowing in its wooded hollow, old,
old, and new, unidentifying the day
and the man giving his thanks.
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