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
In memory of my mother and best friend, Kathy Nacker (1933-2012)
Few birds seem to enjoy life more than this Vireo
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.