sally nacker 

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 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?

--Thoreau's Journal,

February 14, 1856



In memory of my mother and best friend, Kathy Nacker (1933-2012) 


                     Few birds seem to enjoy life more than this Vireo    

                                                                             -Audubon  


            My mother as a young woman     

                                                                                                             

                                                       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.