copp and i send a warm hug to callie parestsky, who couldn't make it to the island today. we love you honey.

mister pokes through the airy ice. there was a coyote here earlier.

really maybe we should be happy all the time but our instinct for happiness and survival has become crippled and civilized, like inbred birds who pull out their own feathers and make no nest. like dogs who can't stop barking.

swamp white oak. at the south end of the lagoon under the little footbridge we saw the perpetual oil slick revealed by thaw and pat from audubon said it's the leeching waste from the nike missile site from all those years ago. still the birds come, life comes, after nuclear, after winter.