At dawn, a sentinel peering into the mist at the end of a night's hunt . . .
the watchfulness of a young ruffed grouse flushed into the upper limbs . . .
one who is waiting until it is safe to go back to the nest. . . .
the repose of a post-top snipe, tired after the morning's airborne ecstacies. . .
the minerals that bring a fritillery not long from its chrysalis . . . .
the gold of a beaver-made pond in a coulee gone to autumn . . . .
the small worlds crafted by poplar, beetle, and woodpecker. . .
summer's blushing just before the leaves let go . . .
the "journey work of stars" in leaves of grass, and . . .
the secrets spilling over root and deadfall not only then but even now that we are far from the quiet wood, the balsam tang of the coulee air, and all the other things that matter.
Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul. ~John Muir