—for TS— T.S. Eliot wrote in The Waste Land, “April is the cruelest month,” and in the poem, “Home-Thoughts, from Abroad,” Robert Browning penned, “Oh, to be in England/Now that April’s there.” I don’t know that I find April crueler…
Here we are at the end of March, and I am thinking about December. Well, not really December. I am thinking about town and how I sometimes go there to write. Town can be a location and an idea. In…
By early December there was not much snow, and by the end of the December there was not any snow. I took a long walk on a day between then and now. A walk in the far north in winter…
“Still, he could not help noticing what was in the air, and feeling some of its influence in his bones.” The Wind in the Willows On August 12th this year, I noticed the season turning. That afternoon I went outside…
I made you take time to look at what I saw and when you took time to really notice my flower, you hung all your own associations with flowers on my flower and you write about my flower as if…
I woke up today and made a cup of tea. It’s a little after 4:30 AM when I do this. It’s dark outside, but I look anyway. In another couple of months the sun will be shining through my kitchen…
Perhaps light is the first thing that appears when I think of this place, light, the way it textures the world here. True, I see places where I have camped and fished and walked and drank coffee. I see cairns…
I woke up early this morning. Early is 3:30 am, this after an 11:30 bedtime. I sometimes hear people talk about how they can’t sleep. I wonder if they mean what I mean when I say that I can’t sleep.…
My love I am sending you this picturesque view of the river –W.G. Sebald Again, remember that it is not the weight of the future or the past that is pressing upon you, but ever that of the present alone.…
Note: In the essay that follows, I continue to write about my early days of learning to fly fish. Uncle Lloyd still lived in Dove Creek, and I was on the way west again with my family. We were moving…