"And suddenly I apprehend in it the dark proposal of the ground. Under the fallen leaf my breastbone burns with imminent decay. Other leaves fall. My body begins its long shudder into hummus. I feel my substance escape me, carried into the mold by beetles and worms. Days, winds, seasons pass over me as is ink under the leaves. For a time only sight is left me, a passive awareness of the sky overhead, birds crossing, the mazed inter reaching of the treetops, the leaves falling - and then that, too, sinks away. It is acceptable to me, and I am at peace."
From Wendell Berry’S 1968 essay entitled “A Native Hill”