From the corral, the calls sounded again and again—loud, deranged by worry, a desperate mother’s cries of distress.

"I simply like the label, 'creative process.' It's a juxtaposition of terms. When you're creative, you're using the spontaneous, energetic, boundless part of your spirit."

Years ago, I found myself in a small village in Shikoku one evening, needing a place to stay. I had been counting on getting a room at a youth hostel in a nearby town, but when I got there, I found it was full.

In most lakes, a body sinks once water fills the lungs. It goes down down down down down until the bacteria in its gut produces enough gas to float it back to the surface.

With a mug of tea and a mystery I relaxed into the couch. Late night bliss. Halfway through one of those scenes in which jackbooted Nazi officers bang on a family’s door I saw a quick movement on the other side of the room out of the corner of my eye.

Sometimes a man buys a house in order to have a dog.

Eighteen months after my father died, I was surprised to receive a call expressing condolences for the loss of—how to describe it?—my adopted brother.

Every once in awhile I look over my shoulder to watch our footsteps fade into the wet sand.  They just fill with water and dissolve back into beach, like we were never there. 

My ten foot metal ladder was splayed open precariously at the edge of the wetland. I stood high on it, clinging to the side with one hand, trying to open the top of a brand new nest box with the other.

"When the monarchs hang clustered together, paralyzed by the cold, they are clasped to each other, holding the heat between them. They wait for the sun to warm them."