Love is going out to kill a turkey in 20-degree weather so that your wife can tend other things. And love is still liking the man who is grinning and handing you a large turkey to pluck in 20-degree weather, and it is the rueful smile in return. Then it is catching each other's eyes over the table, biting into turkey but also into the body memory of cold fingers touching, the grin, the rueful smile, the puppies wrestling over feathers, the bucket steaming from the boiling water, blood in snow, the times a turkey attacked our daughter and another chased the
A pirate friend of mine recently sent me a note: "If a dove release symbolizes letting something go . . . then what would you do to symbolize receiving? I know I need to work on that. I have a hard time getting around to sending out invoices for my work. What's beautiful in your world today?" Every morning, take bread and put on it a little butter and a little salt. Take it and your drinking bowl, peeling off steam, out to the edge of your space - a balcony, the edge of the lawn in the snow -- somewhere with
Qadaffi, Wisconsin politics, Lady Gaga, oil and New Zealand -- all becoming protective coverings for this year's tiny babies in their nest bowls. Temperatures are in the single digits and minuses, but the breeding birds are already nestling tiny ones under their breasts. We wrap each bowl in several sheets of paper, then add a handful of pine needles into each nest as it goes into the nest box. Twelve birds already paired up. And then out for a ski!