November 1997 Its bare branches the winter before were exuberant scrawls against a blank sky about to snow and then snowing, or runes punctuated by the brownish-gray question marks of squirrels. And this fall, the leaves were so gold they looked heavy as Cleopatra’s burnished throne or as some feeling unexpressed. The one tree in…
Overcast till 4 p.m. Gunshot-like crackling punctuates the hazy afternoon— premature fireworks as neighborhood kids prepare earsplitting festivities in honor of Independence Day. Bees big as doorknobs buzz drunkenly by, barely able to remain airborne. The dog races ahead through Elysian Park. We’re on a dirt trail that winds through California scrub—scorched hillsides of orange…
As if their very comeliness were centrifugal, one falls forward slightly toward the husband and wife standing together under the outdoor lights of a summer party. Sunburnt, vibrant, expressive, perfectly proportioned, they make clear, unwittingly and in relief, our ordinary, passably-attractive selves. God and goddess, or king and queen, amassing mythic energy as they speak…
Number 280 in the Audubon Society Field Guide At first it seems the most subtle of spirits, inhabiting invisibly this dense, adumbral light at the bottom of the woodland understory, the rise and fall of its own recurring phrase so tremulous, so mournful a tone, we resist our impulse to pause beneath…
1959 When we set out on the train to Agra I thought, What an old palace we are going to see, it’s an old grave. I was tired when we reached the station and you hired a taxi to take us to the steps of the Taj Mahal; you couldn’t even wait until morning,…
Thank God for the beaver pond. You know I had my doubts about cutting the two-hour trail so close to the pond, but those animals are not shy, and let me tell you: it was destiny. Those two men I guided last night? They said they had come all the way…
One of those pizza-like images of the moons of Jupiter before computer enhancement is how I look to this moth, since that’s how everything looks (see Monet, etcetera) before the brain, with help from personal history, cleans it up. And this moth, the poor trustee of one small fraction of a thought, has got no…
for Tim Wakefield On the mound you stand—just so— exhale—so—throw at the same spot over and over. There’s only one way to toss a knuckleball, near-impossibly simple; your fingernails flick it at the distant lozenge of the catcher’s mitt, but it must be thrown so evenly the ball won’t spin at all, sixty feet six…
Think of him all that summer at poolside, in seersucker shorts a size too big and a sombrero, hoisting highballs— a few past a few too many— in memory of his Men. His “boodies.” Or floating in the pool, say, with swimfins, his body, bird’s nest frail after surgery, the stitches running like the Yangtze…
No products in the cart.