242543_10151224037892683_675180789_o-001November now—a month, that makes psalmists of us all. On the Mountain, and in the Park, the evergreens are singing the 23rd with a soulful serenity—the soulful serenity of a Stoic sage: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

In Saint-Louis Square, the melancholy maples mesmerize with a wrenching rendition of the 55th—awash in a soulful sadness—the soulful sadness of a grieving Górecki: “Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me. . . . Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.”

In the grey skies above, geese fill the air with a masterful interpretation of the 91st: “He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.”

But if you long to hear the 65th, or the 46th, you’ve gotta go down to The River, gotta share some secrets with The Saint. Larry roars in the springtime, it’s true, when “the river of God is full of water”—but it’s November now, and his voice is soft and sweet, no louder than a whisper: “Be still,” He says, “and know that I am God.”

—John Faithful Hamer, The Book of the Dead (2018)