I walk in the bare maple swamps and detect the minute pensile nest of some vireo high over my head, the fork of some unattainable twig, where I never suspected them in summer,-- a little basket cradle that rocked so high in the wind. And where is that young family now, while their cradle is filled with ice?
February 14, 1856
My mother as a young woman
In memory of my mother and best friend, Kathy Nacker (1933-2012)
Few birds seem to enjoy life more than this Vireo
In memory of my dear father, Bob Nacker (1928-2015)
Bob and Kathy Nacker
In memory of my friend, Dan Odegard (1945-2015)
Dan writes me: As I was returning from the bookstore this morning with my Murakami (the first to be sold - I had to have them dig it out), I was thinking how wonderful my life is, how rich - to have the perspective I have now, to live amidst such ordinary beauty, to listen to music, to read wonderful books. From the first page, the new novel sings - exactly as a beautiful piece of music is beautiful somehow from its first note.
How can this happen? But it does. Some of it has to do with my own "ear" I realize - but I had to wait six and a half decades to listen so well. Why so long? Why have I so little time left?
A glorious fall day here, very Halloween-like (cool but pleasant, a quiet kind of light diminished by light clouds). I hope to work a bit, and to read and dream. I think I'll go back to Keats first. Thank you.