“And I walk on, over the shoulder of summer down across the red-dappled fall; and, when it’s late winter again, out through the far woodlands of the Province Islands, maybe another few hundred miles, looking for the owl’s nest, and yes, of course, looking at everything else along the way.” (Mary Oliver, Upstream.)
Mary Oliver has her far woodlands. We have the Loess Hills. We’ve walked over brawny shoulders and across the dappled valleys, almost to winter. Now is the time for walking and even sauntering, with open eyes all the way, and for writing in notebooks with stiff fingers.
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