At dawn, the cranes that slept along
the margins of the lake begin
to stretch their wings and murmur. Mist
ascends around our rowboat. Then
in sudden clamor they splash and rise,
trumpet across the sky to feast
on corn before their long trip south.
The sun lifts, silent, from the east.
And now the geese fly high above,
honking their way to join the cranes.
We rest upon the grace of water,
the taut uplift of gathered rain.
February 27, 2023 @ 6:44 pm Sheila Cooper
Your essay in New Life Rising booklet in which you discuss Walker Percy’s ‘wry self-help book’ left me wondering if you had somehow mistaken satire for wryness, if there is such a word. Of course I know zero about Walker or his demented sounding reasons for not committing suicide. If he was serious and his ideas were accurately characterized by you then I think you deserve each other.