Dear Postal Person,

Thank you for taking the trouble to push through the snow on my gate and my path to put my parcels in the comfy porch chair. I assume that you’re getting paid during the government shutdown, but I know that your job takes a lot of attention to detail, some risk, and a lot of steps (hopefully to keep you healthy), and I appreciate that. If you put me on the end of your route some summer day, maybe we can sit down on the porch (you get the comfy) chair, and have a beer or a Coke or some tea.


To the neighbors,



Dear World,

There are some days when I don’t interact with anyone, which leaves little room for love notes to humans, but that doesn’t mean that there is nothing to which to write a love note. Tonight, I write a love note to owls, and send it to them on the black wind.

To the Long-Eared Owl, glimpsed through changing aspen trees many September ago, in the woods somewhere outside of Crested Butte, on one of those journeys that shaped the years to come. To the baby Western Screech Owl, nestled in the corner of a porch, so still that I wasn’t sure it was real. To the Barn Owl in the Portland Zoo, whose ghost face leapt brightly from the shadows of a rough-hewn roof beam. To the Great Horned Owls who lived in the towering White Fir tree outside my pink cottage, who hooted to one another in my sad darkness, gently, until I learned their language and could hoot in response. Especially to the one who, one night as I made my way across the cold dead grass, swooped so low, so huge, so close to my head that I had to duck, that I could feel the draft from the beat of his wings. And finally, to the pair, as yet unseen, that speak softly outside my window on rare wee hours in the Bungalow. I hope that one day I can learn how to talk to them as well.

great horned owl


Dear MKL,



(Because yesterday should have been No. 19 — calendars and I are apparently not simpatico.)

Dear Andrea,

Thank you for your friendship and your beauty. You’re one tough cookie, and I’m so happy that you’ve made a connection with someone who appreciates you for you. I know I certainly do


Dear Annie,

You give the best hugs too.



To the blonde barista:

Thank you for sharing memories of our mothers, both of whom told us, “Don’t walk in my dirt!” when they were sweeping the floors. My Mother always had a particularly funny, squeaky way of saying it, and I hear her voice in my head every time I sweep a floor with anyone else around. As a mom, you say it to your own kids. Thank you for laughing with me as I instinctively picked my feet up off the floor, sitting in my chair at the green cracked-ice table, so you could sweep under them. It was a sweet interlude on a cold winter’s day.

A photo of my first ever matcha. It grew on me, but the first few sips, sadly, tasted like what I think a dog must taste after he throws up the grass he just ate. Number of stars: questionable. For you vintage furniture lovers, please note the aforementioned green cracked-ice table.


To the FedEx Kinko’s lady,



Seattle, Washington.


White Night by Mary Oliver
All night
I float
in the shallow ponds
while the moon wanders
bone white,
among the milky stems.
I saw her hand reach
to touch the muskrat’s
small sleek head
and it was lovely, oh,
I don’t want to argue anymore
about all the things
I thought I could not
live without! Soon
the muskrat
will glide with another
into their castle
of weeds, morning
will rise from the east
tangled and brazen,
and before that
and beautiful
hurricane of light
I want to flow out
across the mother
of all waters,
I want to lose myself
on the black
and silky currents,
the tall lilies
of sleep.

To the woman I met on my walk:



Dear Bridget,



August 2019
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