Snow House
Though we walked by this spot a hundred times in the summer, I never noticed the nest. I never heard the music of the …
Though we walked by this spot a hundred times in the summer, I never noticed the nest. I never heard the music of the …
The ears twitch, and I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye. I have to look a long time before I …
I usually know, even before we arrive, whether I will find something in the sand—a special rock, a sand dollar, a mermaid’s tear. Truly, it …
Outside, the wind drags the temperature down to –30. A William Morris wallpaper has appeared on a corner of the frosted glass. This small scrap …
As the temperature falls, crunch becomes squeak. I am sure there is an explanation for this, but right now I don’t care to hear it. …
Alder, pin cherry, hawthorn, maple, birch—a thousand saplings bow their heads low over the paths as if they would pay homage to all who travel …
I have worked hard all year to see the evidence of human incursions onto this land in the same way as the other wild creatures …
The snow tells stories of the living woods and all the animals that travel here. The well-trodden paths that in summer are discernible only to …
Underneath the snow, the ice is as clear and as smooth as glass. Crouching beside the track, I look through winter backwards to last …
It seems the days are perpetually overcast, the rain always just beginning or just ending. There is a constancy in the supply of fresh mud …