The Bible speaks of birds and lilies, the necessity of minding wilder things. Consider, then, the light trickling over the eastern rim, tracing honeyed fingers across the shorn fields, lifting starshine eyes to feathered song. Observe how it lingers mid-morning, then surges, wavering mouth gobbling up the land, interrupted only by cotton clouds and planes and, later, as the afternoon yawns, note the embrace of diffuse beams open-handed and beckoning. Then even

A reflection on the month of October.

Our resident beaver heads out at dawn, eager to surveil its water kingdom, repeats the circuit when dusk tints the sky. He swims unhurried along the marsh line, marking the willows he plans to gnaw into submission when darkness falls. Last autumn he stripped the banks, even took down the American Olive, despite the fencing wound like a hug around the branching trunk. His regal laps announce that he is emperor of his domain, his tail slap a stern warning that in this natural

Josie Mirabal sacrificed two and a half vacation days to meet her online lover. For the past month and a half, a man calling himself Mike Halverson had sent daily messages via her personal blog, Friends of Reflective Surfaces, sharing his opinion about all things shiny and, eventually, his interest in her. Josie’s collection of mirrored crystal figurines (she’d posted several photos of her favorite clowns and dancers) had initially attracted Mike’s attention. Although she did

Two days of cloudy skies and sporadic rain, then the sun returns, sends a beam across the back yard, fires the geraniums squatting next to the blistered Charleston bench. Still cool, low 60’s at 7 a.m. The early morning dip a predictable lull before the dog day begins. In the garden, asters stretch knee-high, the dogwood sets spring blooms, petunias and begonias burn calendar-bright. It is August 6, the day the United States dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, weldin

Oh, the dog days are coming! In this month whose name reminds us of Augustus Caesar and his eventual demise, I am plowing ahead with writing and submissions and trying to defend my desire to make my words count. But sometimes, in the middle of filling out yet another specific request, it can feel like agents and editors are killing the creator in me with the multiple asks. After finishing the manuscript for CARRY ME HOME, I wrote a 150-word synopsis, a one-page synopsis, and

We pay to have the scruffy yews replaced by red elf coreopsis and balloon flowers, the dwarf variety, each cutting selected for its sweet bee perfume, the whole fenced in by fuschia-bright phlox. It’s a good plan, well-researched and weed-tended, until the morning I spy a wild invader’s stalk, rising like a Trojan horse with spine so tall it quickly outpaces the lame domesticated roots, races upward, one foot, two, ten, each leap a succulent invitation to butter