<html><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body dir="auto"><div><span></span></div><div>1996, V<div><br></div><div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on" style="text-align: left; line-height: 19px; ">Some Sunday afternoon, it may be,<br>you are sitting under your porch roof,<br>looking down through the trees<br>to the river, watching the rain. The circles<br>made by the raindrops’ striking<br>expand, intersect, dissolve,<br><br>and suddenly (for you are getting on</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0.1pt; line-height: 19px; ">now, and much of your life is memory)<br>the hands of the dead, who have been here<br>with you, rest upon you tenderly<br>as the rain rests shining<br>upon the leaves. And you think then<br><br>(for thought will come) of the strangeness</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0.1pt; line-height: 19px; ">of the thought of heaven, for now<br>you have imagined yourself there,<br>remembering with longing this<br>happiness, this rain. Sometimes here<br>we are there, and there is no death.</div></div><div><br></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Wendell Berry</div></div></body></html>