When my brother was twenty-one
he headed west
to count birds.

Fresh out of college,
his personal map
had no next destination.
Spotted owls seemed
a novel waypoint.

In 1990,
northern spotted owls joined
the Endangered Species Act
list of vulnerable species.

For decades,
logging,
human encroachment,
and other owl species
worked to diminish the
spotted owl population of Oregon.

Day after day,
my brother headed out
no matter the weather
to count,
catalogue,
watch.

Spending time
in the company of owls
changed my brother.

Today,
my brother
navigates the rivers
of Montana,
a fly fishing guide.

Elk, wolves,
bear, and yes,
owls share the landscape
with my brother.

Thirty years ago
in my corporate suit,
I questioned my brother’s
choices.

Now,
I marvel at his wisdom
so young —
to stake a life outdoors
after walking
amid the majesty of owls.

In spring
there is a quality to the light
beckoning us outdoors —
just to be in its presence.

White blossoms
on cherry trees,
dogwoods, crab apples
glow in the early morning.

Unlike summer light,
which shimmers in waves
on the horizon,
objects melting before our eyes.
Spring light
is crisp and tart
like a freshly picked apple.

Walking in spring light,
anything is possible.

Like birds,
humans gather
objects to feather the nest.

First,
needs —
clothing, bedding, dishes.

Next,
mementos —
pottery, snow globes, tee shirts.

When children arrive,
boxes of baby clothes,
photographs, wooden toys
line the storage room shelves.

Weekends spent reading
mean shelves crammed
with books,
jazz albums
for the turntable.

Family heirlooms
passed down
through generations
fill sideboards and cupboards.

Before you know it,
you are carrying
the heavy weight
of shared experience.

This week,
I am unburdening.

No need to wait for
children to sort through
the detritus of my past.

A few items will remain,
but I do not need objects
to revisit a lifetime of memories.

Down a country lane
past open fields,
and over a one-lane bridge,
we arrive at the Northampton
dog park.

Unlike its urban counterparts,
the space is open, vast —
a cartography of dirt-packed paths,
rocky outcroppings,
a gently flowing river.

Louie is first out of the car,
bounding toward the grass,
leash-less and free.

Ahead
three dogs play tag
weaving in and out
of newly leafed trees.

We humans
chat while ambling
the two mile trail.
Louie darts back,
checking on our progress.

Cresting a hill,
we spy him wading
into the frosty current,
intermittently swimming,
searching the clear cold stream
for darting fish.

Louie’s abandon,
his open welcome
is a model for the way
we should be
in the world.

“I just want her to be
happy.”

My sister and I spent
a glorious weekend
with my niece.

“I like him. But,
will it last?”

Over coffee and biscuits,
we reflected
on long walks, good meals,
deep conversation.

“Love is a funny thing,”
I responded
through sips of coffee.

“It’s just
she has had two
big heartbreaks…”
my sister fretted.

“If we enter
every relationship
holding back,
where is the joy?”

Just then,
my niece and her
lanky, smiling boyfriend
entered.

Ahh, there is the joy.

Enter —
warmth welcomes you.
Happy chatter spills out
like marbles on the quiet street,
bouncing.

*This cinquain (syllables 2-4-6-8-2) is a toast to cozy spots in chilly towns. Joe’s serves yummy pasta in Northampton, Massachusetts.

After Emily Dickinson’s death,
her sister Lavinia discovered
more than 1800 poems
among her things.

Publishing a scant
ten poems anonymously
in life,
Dickinson had poems
pouring from her pen,
seeping through her pores.

While adult Emily Dickinson
rarely left her family home,
she wrote constantly.

Thousands of letters,
bits of poetry
on scraps of paper,
corners of envelopes,
stuffed in pockets.

Dickinson wrote
of nature,
love,
death,
life,
hope.

Quietly working
in her corner of Amherst,
Dickinson lived a life of letters —
in her head.

The question
remains…
what waits
percolating
in your head?

Yesterday
the rain
kept me company.

The drive
a long haul —
Virginia to Massachusetts.

At times she was moody,
shifting from tender
to raging.

Further north,
she greeted me
with fat dumplings
of wet snow.

Arriving at the Old Mill Inn,
I heard her gentle welcome
patter on the window,
dance on the aged wooden planks.

I was thankful for the company.

Eating around the world,
I find culinary constants.

Flatbreads, Mexican tortillas,
Ethiopian injera,
Taiwanese scallion pancakes,
Pakistani naan.

Noodles almost everywhere.
Hand-torn,
dumpling tender,
kneading on a wooden board,
just the right chew.

Some things really are
universal.

*This found poem comes from an article in Cristopher Kimball’s Milk Street Magazine.

When I was small
I marveled at a notion —
simply sitting in a car
I could be transported
from one place
to another.

The wizardry
of human invention
seemed to know
no bounds.

As I grew,
the wonder continued.
Windows sliding up and down
as if by magic,
rear doors opening and closing
with the touch of a finger,
side mirrors defogging
in an instant.

This morning
the March air blew cold.
I climbed into my magical moving machine
to the innovation
of warm seats and improbably,
a heated steering wheel.

It seems
we humans will continue
to insulate ourselves
in comfort
against the inevitability
of our short time on the planet.