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Lead   Here is a story to break your heart. Are you willing? This winter the loons came to our harbor and died, one by one, of nothing we could see. A friend told me of one on the shore that lifted its head and opened the elegant beak and cried out in the long, sweet savoring of its life which, if you have heard it, you know is a sacred thing, and for which, if you have not heard it, you had better hurry to where they still sing. And, believe me, tell no one just where…


The Deer   You never know. The body of night opens like a river, it drifts upward like white smoke,   like so many wrappings of mist. And on the hillside two deer are walking along just as though this wasn't   the owned, tilled earth of today but the past. I did not see them the next day, or the next,   but in my mind's eye - there they are, in the long grass, like two sisters.   This is the earnest work.  Each of us is given only so many mornings to do it - to look…


The Summer Day   Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean-- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down, who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.   I don't know exactly what…


What Can I Say   What can I say that I have not said before? So I'll say it again. The leaf has a song in it. Stone is the face of patience. Inside the river there is an unfinishable story and you are somewhere in it and it will never end until all ends.   Take your busy heart to the art museum and the chamber of commerce but take it also to the forest. The song you heard singing in the leaf when you were a child is singing still. I am of years lived, so far, seve...

My soul is in desperate need of some time on the north shore. Frosty Morning on Superior by Bryan Hansel


I tell you this to break your heart... | Mary Oliver