Walking Lunes

soft is the light

and the skin

and the seed pod

*Kristin Zahra

*Troy Soderberg

Feral Friends, 

Like the crescent moon, a poem can wax or wane; three simple lines can reveal the contours of wild silences and draw us in. An American form of haiku — the lune — forms a crescent, waning or waxing, without the constraints of syllabic count. It is the perfect form as the shortest days of the year ring the solstice, simple days of beauty and stillness, waning days soon to wax. Some of our friends  can even write a lune with a camera, like Kristin’s waning lune (top) and Troy’s waxing lune. See how the crescents curve this way and that? With every walk in a wild place (or a wild walk in any place) we write a lune with our feet as we follow the round of the earth. 

Can you feel it?

Jack Phillips

Trading Bluebirds

Feral friends,

Seems that the confluence of the Blood Moon, lunar eclipse, Sauin, going off daylight-savings time and not to mention the midterm elections has dithered and kerfuffled many among us greatly. But those of us devoted to rewildling the soul and the world around us take joy in earlier moons and later dawns, the rhythms of day-lengths and the waxing of lunes and of course the trading of bluebirds and changing of leaves. If you are just too busy to measure your days (and your life!) thusly, perhaps a little time in the woods or in an autumn meadow might be just the thing. Leave your phone behind. Read a wild poem or write one.

Consult the moon,

Jack Phillips

Trading Bluebirds

My friend reported hey my bluebirds are back and lest you think no big deal they were here all summer same goes for robins sometimes sapsuckers – but no. These winter squatters northern feather-peddlers boreal storytellers fill the bird-shaped spaces when Sauin travels to Solstice (and Gaia warms her bottom) with the southering sun.

Photos: Eastern bluebird (Sialia sialis), winter resident in Fremont County Iowa. Summer bluebird tending a nest box in Washington County Nebraska. Photos by Troy Soderberg. Prose poem by Jack Phillips.

Samhain Spins

Feral Friends,

As long as the earth has spun her way around the sun there has been Samhain, Sauin — in any case pronounced sah-win to mark the halfway point between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice. As she rounds herself round the primal tide within the cell of every living thing desires the moon, this year to our eyes less than half but nonetheless always full. And so it is for the lovers of moons and juncos, russet rustles and the lingering of crickets, just one more time turtles belly-up logs on a thin afternoon under low-slung sun, looping buteos, stripping canopies showing off muscles. We can almost believe that we spin this orb under our feet with just the right poem, October at our backs, the weight of an eyelid on the cloudy horizon and a path that turns us ever wilder.

Love November in the woods,

Jack Phillips

Photos: Loess Hills Saunter by Kristin Zahra. Poets under Grandmother Oak by someone using Kristin’s phone.

Pondering the Last Sunday of Summer

Poets on a pond, 4 days before the autumnal equinox in Fremont County, Iowa.

Feral Friends,

Funny how close you can get to a turtle in a canoe, as those who might eat them tend to approach from above or below. Perhaps in silence — save for the reading of a poem by Natalie Diaz or one of our own composing — we move as tracelessly as the passing of days. The planetary impress of human presence grows ever heavier, but those that dip lightly in lyric and paddle write the lines of kinship. Or maybe we remind them of a distant cousin they knew so long, long ago. 

Welcome the Equinox in quiet awe. Turn off your phone.

Jack Phillips

Eastern painted turtles (Chrysemys picta) pondering poets, Fremont County, Iowa.

Turtles by Kristin Zahra, poets by Jack using Kristin’s phone.

Serpentine Resistance

Wild Friends, 

You may have heard that a small group of poets have been keeping Sunday morning vigil by a recently-poisoned pond to witness her recovery. 

She is coming around slowly. Our friends Emily and Angelica scooped a wee serpent from the muddy edge. The summerling Thamnophis radix tried to make tough but we loved that little one even more – inspiring us instead of instilling fear. This small act of defiance helped us feel better about the pond or at least, more hopeful. 

Let the little ones show us the way.

– Jack Phillips

Photos by Emily Anderson, August 14th in Fremont County, Iowa.

Love Little

Wild friends,

A favorite pond breeds the world’s smallest flowering plants and Iowa’s smallest frogs. Duckweeds (family Lemnoideae) look like wee lily pads and it takes a whole bunch of them to hold a baby frog of the family Hylidae. Blanchard’s cricket frog, Acris blanchardii (photo above) is listed as endangered in surrounding states, but we are blessed with plenty right here. Tiny hylids and the diminutive duckweeds that support them enliven our waters and are vital to our ecosystems. And of course to mindful pond-seers as they bring us closer, grow our little devotion.

Love little,

Jack Phillips


Photo by Courtney Stormberg

Bee of Green Desires

Unaware of living she simply lives and lusting only for fragrance and the vagrancy of desire, arches her back. 

Tiny native bee of the genus Augochlorella, Fremont County, Iowa.

We love to write flash poetry — sometimes called micropoems — because they carry the rawness of a hungry bee on a blurry thistle, a brief breeze on a humid morning. When you write one it sharpens the moment and when you read it later it takes you back. You can share it like a photo on your phone and maybe next time your friends will join us in a wet meadow.

*Photos by Kristin Zahra, poem by Jack Phillips.

On speechlessness and tanagers

Feral friends,

After three days of mycologizing and botanizing with our visiting scientist Kathleen Thompson (UW-Madison) and an occasional break to read Rilke, we arranged ourselves on early morning logs to write poetry under a canopy of tanagers and buntings. Our Sunday poet Joelle Sandfort prompted us to write with speechless awe. In these Iowa sugar-clay woods, how could we do otherwise? 

Find a beauty so deep.

– Jack Phillips

How to Write a Warbler

Hard to follow a warbler in these woods harder even so to write one. Still yourself on a log when the other poets have settled in blink and slide your eyes after canopy flits  

        – flit   –    twitter     


                                                          chip                                                             twee-


                                      just                                 the                                                           wa



ey                                                                                 do

                   mo                             ve                                                  bounce,                                       and 


*Yellow-rumped warbler in Cass County, Iowa on May 1st. Photo by Troy Soderberg. Prose poem by Jack Phillips.