The Greeks were right. The land beneath the pole star toward which the great bear noses his bright stars, never hiding that constant and fruitless work, is mirrored. Take this, then, as proof that imagination is not…
We felt out of place, standing there in our Bermudas among the leathered others, the men’s spiderweb beards, the women’s leatherette vests crushing their breasts, tattoos inked on biceps bronzed by the Dakota sun. And yet,
There's your hoe out in the sun Where you left a row half done —Louis Armstrong and Bing Cosby Catfish, bream, and redeye bass, River of Muscadines, of hardwood bluffs, and mossy grottoes,
About six years ago I became friends with the great nature writer John Hay and that friendship has been a source of deep pleasure for me. One day, while I was visiting him in Maine, we found ourselves talking about…
Where is the fear this afternoon? Where did it go and why can’t I locate it now? A goldfinch flies up while other leaves, gold and russety, sift and fall. A flight up, a flight down, the very air marked,
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