They say that dogs can sniff out COVID in passengers at the Helsinki airport, offering a paw, or lying down – (even in this job, dogs are on our side – “I’m sorry,” they say with a paw, “you’re positive, but I will lie here with you.”) with near 100% accuracy. Maybe they smell it … More In Which Dogs Sniff out the Virus and Save the World, And Also Get Treats
This world is a sepulchre, this world is our tomb, cradling the bones of whoever was, and whoever is, and perhaps whoever shall be; This world holds us all fast as it surely weaves through the shroud of stars, the cloak of the Milky Way – And even when we’ve good and ruined this Earth … More The Earth’s Little Golden Book of Lament
It’s after eight in the evening, and in this antique light, the Queen Anne’s Lace along the roads watches the sinking sun – hundreds of tatted blooms close up like praying hands, like thousands of empty teacups drained and set upon the sideboard of the day. In the morning they’ll open again to catch the … More That Summer of the Pandemic, It Was All Falling Apart, It was All Coming Together
This full moon is an open book left for you in the beach house you rent for the summer, full of some other family’s things. The preface, nothing but light. As days flip by, thin as ghosts, you lose the plot: the moon comes up in another part of the house, sets when you aren’t … More The Book of the Covid Moon
I am the reflection of a star on the dark glass of the river just before dawn breaks.
October rain ebbs and flows and falls and falls and falls on the crooked pine trees and the roof, on the old swing set and the black driveway, on the cold, wet burn barrel and the American flag at the hundred year old house on Shady Lane where my parents live still. In the basement, … More The Disobedience of Rain
On the last Saturday of my 40s, I drive alone to Fish Creek to take the Sunset Bike Trail at Peninsula State Park. It occurs to me as I review the map, then fold it into small rectangles and put it into my back pocket, that if I live to be 96, it’s a decade … More 9.6 Miles in September
Cathedral pines rock – in this ocean of green waves – I roll through and drown.
That afternoon at the cabin we sat by the river after I had cut up those small trees that you dropped at my feet with the tractor – (an offering, a challenge, one that I tore through haphazardly with the new chainsaw, black and yellow like a drunken, terrible bumblebee). It was quiet after all … More The Nest (Or, a Father Considers the Odds of Raising Successful Small-Mouth Bass Offspring)
I. Shady Lane barefoot at twilight we play Ghosts in the Graveyard vanishing in dark II. Rook cards slap on the porch after-dinner Manhattans kids drunk with freedom III. Beckoning June is ever-dusk fireflies wink in gangly grass as I pedal home