Wendell Berry, the Kentucky farmer and writer, has for many years been composing poems in observance of the Sabbath. In 2001, he set down these beautiful lines:
"On the river, quiet at daybreak, the reflections of the trees, as in another world, lie across from shore to shore. Yes, here is where they will come, the dead, when they rise from the grave."
Would Wendell Berry find, in coming years, in reflections along the lower Columbia, evidence of harmony and thus of promise? Or might he describe, as chemical engineer Jerry Havens has suggested is a possibility, a scene of fire?