I wish birds could read. Then I’d have my preferred audience.
T. H. White wrote about nature because he didn’t fit in with people. Same.
Falling in love is a desolating experience, but not when it is with a countryside. — T. H. White
Humans are the only species to which I have fallen prey.
In this world / we walk on the roof of hell, / gazing at flowers. — Issa
Strong wind. Crackling house. A conversation.
Thorns and seeds in glass jars. A tackle box packed with toys. Two journals: one practical, one desperate. These will remain when I’m gone.
I just learned that blue jays are the architects of America’s oak forests. Amazing.
The wind tonight is straight out of The Turin Horse.
Every leaf a bird. Every bough a bird. Bird, the wind. Bird, the air. Motion before thought is the bird inside you — scratch marks on stone.
Winter is when I cry a little every night, mostly about the suffering of animals.
Canada geese glide through the air’s church bells.
As I learn the names of birds, I am forgetting the names of people.
I know some birds by their shadows.
Some people feel like glue traps.
The closer you get to real matter, rock, air, firewood, boy, the more spiritual the world is. — Jack Kerouac
The day after Donald Trump won the election, I walked into a canyon.
I’m not sure what all the American robins were doing in my backyard this afternoon, but it appeared to be some sort of flash mob.
We got the tube feeder and heated birdbath set up just in time for winter. New visitors include cedar waxwings and black-capped chickadees.
This morning, I saw a squirrel sitting like Buddha at the base of my sweetgum tree.
When the last mourning dove disappeared, I was more alone than ever.