Recently, Scot brought to my attention a poem by May Sarton called April in Maine: The days are cold and brown, Brown fields, no sign of green, Brown twigs, not even swelling, And dirty snow in the woods. But as the dark flows in The tree frogs begin Their shrill...

"All that is ripest and fairest in the wilderness is preserved and transmitted to us in the strain of the wood thrush.  This is the only bird whose note affects me like music, affects the flow and tenor of my thought, my fancy and imagination.  It lifts and...

We are in an ephemeral time here at Rolling Ridge, an indefinable season between winter and spring. Our friend Cheryl is repairing her bluebird boxes while patches of crusty snow line the side of the gravel road. Days ago, a bitter wind chilled faces and bones....