Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love
On the road by the arena,
puddles fill ditches
and flaxen rushes wave
in March rain.
The House Sparrow–Old World import, the first Brooklyn birds captured, purchased, transported in cages–we ignored till they overran natives, ravaged crops, windowsills, and eventually, hockey arenas.
People often ask me, “What can one person do?” And I say, “Stop being one person.”
Two tiny yellow eyes stared back at me from the shadows near the shed. This has happened with my dog and with my cats, but I had never experienced this with a rat.
an emptiness, too, in the bright
flicker of a cardinal on my back fence
How the Environmental Movement Lost Its Way and What We Can Do About it.