Pondering Picayunity

The Wild Geese Wendell Berry Horseback on Sunday morning, harvest over, we taste persimmon and wild grape, sharp sweet of summer’s end. In time’s maze over fall fields, we name names that went west from here, names that rest on graves. We open a persimmon seed to find the tree that stands in promise, pale, in the seed’s marrow. Geese appear high over us, pass, and the sky closes. Abandon, as in love or sleep, holds them to their way, clear, in the ancient faith: what we need is here. And we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart, and in eye clear. What we need is here.

It is acceptable to say “I am out of the office and will not check my email” but instead, you insist on telling us that you have “limited internet access” insinuating that this is the only reason you won’t reply as if you’d check your email every fifteen minutes of vacation if not for those pesky technological barriers as if suddenly we’re all back in 1997 and an internet cafe is the only way for us to connect with the outside world when we’re away on vacation but I know it’s not 1997 because Chumbawamba’s Tubthumper isn’t popular anymore and your phone has internet. and McDonald’s has internet. and your Grandma probably has the internet and I understand there are still some places with limited access, but you’re traveling to New York, Steve.