Today I saw a flock of black birds diving and twirling through the old Salem graveyard. As if stirred by a whirlwind, they swooped around the blackened gravestones. Up on the horizon, a white church steeple rose stark against the heather-gray sky. Can it be that the birds already are sensing the call to fly South?

This morning, with my literature students, I read in Augustine’s Confessions: “Thou awakest us to delight in Thy praise; for Thou madest us for Thyself, and our heart is restless, until it repose in Thee.”

Restlessness is everywhere. Rest is the rare and elusive harbor that we all seek, the island among the swirling waves.

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