When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. Of young and beautiful and wild things. Of books and words and sentences. Of Merc just making this paragraph nice and long to make it seem something like a plot. Possibly. Maybe. I can't really tell anymore.Welcome to the Wild.