Tuesday, November 03, 2009



on the eve of The Hunter's Moon
hands warmed by the stove. the world was quiet

Monday, November 02, 2009

I've been here before . . . 



but never like this.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

in the mood for a little green
on this gray, nearly November day
If I were a tree, I’d wish I were a human.

Why does that seem so wrong? To think trees might want the freedom to move somewhere cleaner, more quiet? To pick the place they put down their roots?

Why do we assume that trees are peacefully resigned to the place we give them? Especially that place in our minds.

Is it because they are silent? I ask myself. My mind reels with all the silenced people of the world. They are not content even if wordless and holding their place, a place designated by someone other.

What would happen to the trees if we were to become what we believe they are and make peace with the place we’re planted?

(this was written in response to the Festival of Trees prompt this month)

Tuesday, October 27, 2009



the last maple leaves. near the beaver's
lodge, oak leaves hanging on. a woodpecker rapidly taps.
no ducks on the pond. skim ice along the edge. wrinkled. water falls
in a rush over rocks near home
there is a river we walk towards after dark. listening

to the stars

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Tuesday, October 20, 2009

beech


color that remains, holds
rattles, a semblance of summer
brisk is the wind

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Wednesday, October 14, 2009

first snow


a lovely way to wake
and take things slowly

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Tuesday, October 13, 2009


in good company

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Monday, October 12, 2009

Southern Vermont


15-20mph winds, 50° -- a chilly fall day


in search of the last red leaves

1.5 hours from home, an old haunt, bitterns rumored to lurk here
(year after year my eyes have failed to find them among the reeds... but I still believe... one day)
while eating apples, there will be a shift

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Friday, October 09, 2009

to the tamarack
yet to glow

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Thursday, October 08, 2009


Yesterday: Rain. Sun. Blue sky then. Slate. Lightning flashed off the countertop. Maples fought to stand straight in the wind. He began filming their last orange leaves--a fierce rattling, a tumbling blow. Thunder at 3pm.

By the warmth of his wood stove, I watched November coming fast. No red this morning. Just rust. Bands of it in the hills, patches where the river runs. October 8th, I remind myself.

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Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Home to Bluet Hill


When I first moved to Vermont, this dam was being repaired. Water levels were low; traffic was low. The brook feeding this reservoir ran like the cobblestone river it once was. I witnessed my first cream midge hatch there and learned to cast. I began picking up stones.


The rainbows were small and beautiful. Monarchs frequented the exposed banks blooming with Joe-pye -weed. A resident great blue heron circled the cove near my favorite place to rest--Bluet Hill. I'm looking forward to next year, paddle in hand.

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Tuesday, October 06, 2009


near the hammock

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