Thursday afternoon I try walking Brooklyn to the woods, but she is having none of it. She reluctantly turns the corner with me, pokes along as far behind me as the leash will allow, then finally sits and just looks back at home. I pull, I cajole, but in the end she’s going to do what she’s going to do. I take her home and bike to Maple Grove without her.

Black snakeroot is still green. So are the Carex jamesii leaves, half the width of cooked linguine; the broad Carex albursina leaves, inscribed with Cerodontha trails that run parallel to the veins and branch repeatedly, like networks of tracks in a rail yard; and burdock leaves the size of shovel blades. One Short’s aster and one Drummond’s aster hold a sky-blue flower each. Fallen trees are fringed with turkey tail fungus. Poison ivy leaves scrambling up a sugar maple at the edge of the floodplain range from sunburn-red to lemony yellow. A mosquito buzzes up to me, not subtle at all, so I know very well that it is there. I let it be all the same. It sinks its stylets into my temple by way of thanks.

A bur oak in the floodplain is hanging onto a few leaves that are as large as catcher’s mitts. The branch closest to me is pimply with a troughful of Disholcaspis galls. Leaves falling from the sugar maples and silver maples have papered the top of St. Joseph Creek so thoroughly that a deer mouse could make its way from one side to the other without getting more than its paws and maybe the tip of its tail wet. Maple trunks along the shore ripple in the watery gaps.

The broken-off sugar maple at the west end of the bridge has become a fifteen-foot-tall planter of jewelweed, a prominent but inaccessible garden with a ruff of poison ivy on one side. I walk around it and follow a fallen log in toward the kettle hole where, I have been told by at least two people, kids used to ride their bikes in the 1960s and 70s. An empty Coors can is lying on its side in a hollow log. Downslope is a crushed Leinenkugels can. I bring it up and instruct it to sit quietly with the Coors can, next to the trail. I’ll pick them both up another day when I am walking out this way. (Unless you come across them first. Please just let me know if you do.) At the bottom of the kettle, two Dryad’s saddles have sprouted from a fallen log.

Back up in the woods I watch a gray squirrel race by, then a black squirrel works the fallen leaves for a good minute or two before I lose track of him. Sugar maples are raining leaves. The forest floor beneath them is a dappled rug of reds and browns, yellows, oranges, the muted colors of construction paper projects in fall, of Thanksgiving napkins and pumpkins and multicolored corn. A pair of black cherry seedlings are the glossy green of midsummer. The basal leaves of avens are holding their own, barely, against the carpet of tree leaves building up around them. Toothed late figwort leaves the shape of trowel heads line the trail. Crickets purr and pulse. Another pest of a mosquito buzzes around my head, but I do not give it a chance to land.

I poke along, no more quickly than Brooklyn would, trailing an older couple by about 30 feet. They have a few years on Rachel and me. They stop and look upward at intervals and appear to be conferring about what they see. They are side by side, then she leads, then they are side by side again, then he leads. He is bearded, she is slighter than he. They are walking a medium size dog. The dog is very patient. I like the looks of them, even from a distance. I wonder if they are writing a book about the woods.

The mottled leaves of great waterleaf are blotted with powdery mildew. A sugar maple is splotchy with Frullania. The couple and their dog have slowed to a complete stop and, without picking up my pace, I catch up with them. I ask what they are looking at. “Everything,” the woman responds. Fungi mainly, but birds and trees as well. All of it. The man says, “You must be Andrew.” He has been reading this blog. He asks where Brooklyn is. We shake hands. We exchange names. We swap notes: they’ve been seeing resinous polypore, I have not. I have been seeing Dryad’s saddle, they have not. I decline to mention the beer cans. We quickly figure out who our common friends are. Downers Grove is small enough for that. Then we go on our way.

Saturday morning I return with Brooklyn. She is in the mood to walk this time. It is cool and cloudy and wet. The neighborhood adjoining Maple Grove reeks the old-sock smell of falling highbush cranberry fruits. Jays are screaming from high in the canopy, and robins are chucking intermittently. A white-breasted nuthatch is low and close. Brooklyn moves slowly, smelling everything. The privet leaves are tough and ready for one last round, forester green alongside the black berries.

I scan beneath the leaf litter and find mostly buckthorn seedlings. The dry leaves begin crackling around me, like the sound of carbon dioxide bubbles popping on the surface of a Coke poured warm into a thin-walled glass. I put my hand out to feel for rain drops; in 30 seconds, only one grazes the edge of my ring finger. Yet very small raindrops are sounding off against the leaves all around me. They stop after a minute. Somehow I dodged them all.

Chickadees come in with tst‘s and gravelly buzzes. Two house finches carry nesting material to a branch about 30 feet up in a large tree at the edge of a yard that backs up to the forest preserve. I watch them going back and forth doing nothing effective so far as I can see, then I realize the branches arching above them are filled with ash fruits. This must be one of the last large ashes left in this graveyard of old ash trees. Perhaps it is the largest left. I scan the base of the tree through binoculars to see if there are bore holes for inoculation. I don’t see any, but I could easily be missing them if they are low, and I am only assuming I would recognize them. This tree will sow a lot of seeds, as least this year.

I think again of the couple I ran into on Thursday. I think of you reading this, if you are a Maple Grove wanderer as well, and I wonder what you see in these woods. I mean, not what you could tell me (though I wonder that, too, so let me know), but what you see. We look at the same thing and aim, ostensibly, at the same thing: knowledge of the forest. And if you tell me what you see and I tell you what I see, we will relate to one another. We might say, “Oh, I saw that, too!” or “I know exactly what you mean.” Yet that can’t be right. I don’t even see the same colors you see.

It is a miracle that all this stuff in the universe, all these elementary particles, collude such that your experiences can be inscribed upon me and mine upon you. Somehow, we gain from experiences of the other. We are incorrigibly subjective, root to shoot. I think there’s no getting around it.

A downy woodpecker and a red-bellied woodpecker call as Brooklyn and I walk toward the bridge over St. Joseph Creek. The crickets, silent when I entered the forest, are humming in the shrubs along the edge of the forest. I let Brooklyn off her harness, and she charges down the slope as fast as she can and into the river, bites at the water, then stands still and looks up at me. Then races back up the slope and stands looking toward home, the best dog in Downers Grove.

Last night at 8:40, a killdeer was crying over the pub at the intersection of Curtiss and Belmont. Three weeks ago, killdeer were swerving around the parking lot lights as I returned to my car from Home Depot about 45 minutes past sunset. Killdeer can be active at night, but when I have heard them at night, I believe I have invariably been near streetlights. Is this because I spend my evenings outdoors mostly under artificial light? In a night without the lights of Belmont, would the killdeer have been calling as I reparked the car and returned to the music indoors? I read recently that birds near forest margins, where the city lights are brighter, begin singing earlier in the morning than the same species in the forest interior. Whether we mean to or not, we create a certain kind of world.

It’s been a fungusy time. A walk in the East Woods on Thursday yielded an earth star splayed open, a colony of bonnets standing at attention along the trail’s edge, abortive entoloma erupting in the wood chips, a buff-colored polypore with a cap the size of a playset tea saucer. In Lyman Woods, moss bells are growing toxic-orange on the rotten edge of a wooden boardwalk; they contain amatoxins that cause liver dysfunction and can be deadly, so don’t mess with them if you see them. Caps of Pluteus are ghastly pale on the sides of fallen logs, and a clump of raccoonish scat is bristling with a filamentous fungus like an old bratwurst recovered from the back of the refrigerator. At Maple Grove, rows of umber-brown puffballs have torn open at their tips, puffing out smoky curls of spores at a touch. On our Friday morning walk, Brooklyn and I were a few seconds past them when I looked back and thought for a moment that whirls of spores were following us. But no: it was Brooklyn’s breath coiling from her nostrils.

The edges of wild ginger leaves are glowing yellow on the forest floor, echoing the basswoods on our street. Juncus stems have withered. Sugar maples are shedding yellow and orange leaves onto the surface of St. Joseph Creek, where they float much longer than I would have expected, but eventually sink to the bottom to feed the stream. Black walnuts line the trails through sections of the East Woods, husks on some black and rotted through, on others bright green, thick and strong as elephant skin.

I walk through Lyman Woods this afternoon to find the ephemeral pond dried down to muck. Ash seedlings–I believe they are white ash, though I do not know for sure–are all yellowed. A few mosquitos are still making pests of themselves. Squirrels or mice have been nibbling white oak acorns and then abandoning their work half-done. I come across an acorn with scratch marks and a divot on it, crack it open to find it growing fine. Another has a blackened root emerging, a pathogenic–fungal?–plume enveloping the tip of the cotyledons where the embryo resides. A fresh, heavy shagbark hickory nut plummets to the forest floor. The ground is littered with husks.

A solitary chorus frog cricks slowly from a tree overlooking the ephemeral pond [1]. I walk down the hill and am intercepted by a flock of sparrows lisping. At least I believe they are sparrows, but I cannot see any of them. I stand still for about 15 minutes, listening and watching. A brown creeper crawls up the white oak in front of me, methodically traversing the length of the trunk before he flies off to an adjacent tree. A golden-crowned kinglet squeaks. A chickadee appears in the lowest part of the canopy. White-breasted nuthatches honk in the distance. Red-bellied woodpeckers clamor in the treetops. No evidence of sparrows, so perhaps I was wrong about the lisping. Something moves rapidly between the bases of white snakeroot and Joe-pye weed, rustling their feathery infructescences. After a few minutes, a chipmunk emerges and runs across a fallen log.

Last week’s asters have mostly shed their rays, letting the sky-blue shards drop to the soil and brown with everything else.

I walk to the edge of the marsh. Blue jays are chasing each other between the tree tops, red-winged blackbirds are badgering each other noisily, robins are piping. Lacey Creek is thick with duckweed over a sparse net of aquatic naiad that I would at one point have called Najas flexilis without hesitation, which it may in fact be. But it seems quite slender even for that graceful plant, so I’ll have to give it a close look with better specimens. The marsh edge is a thicket of cattails. The center is densely clogged with river bulrush. Crickets in the cattails pulse rapidly. I count about 45 in 10 seconds during three consecutive counts. This comes to 270 per minute. If I use Dolbear’s Law to estimate the temperature, I get 107 degrees Farenheit. That can’t be right: it’s closer to 70 today. Maybe the crickets hotter in the sun than I am.

The honeysuckle (Lonicera maackii) stems are lined with small, brilliant red berries, particularly striking and beautiful right now, and the Eurasian buckthorn stems are sparsely dotted with nearly black berries. A meadowhawk dragonfly lands repeatedly on the boardwalk beside me, rousing itself as I move and then back settling down when I have been still for a couple of seconds.

I return to my bike by a trail that runs upslope and diffuses into a few splintery options near the middle of the hill. A great red oak knocked down by this summer’s storms lies across the fence. The top of a cherry tree, shorn off by the same storms, still holding onto dried, blackened leaves, rests on the path.

I bike home. Rachel and David and I have lunch, then Rachel heads off to work for the afternoon while David and I sit and read. A few golden-crowned kinglets come through our yard, working their way noisily between the branches of our swamp white oak and neighbor’s white pine. We have the window open, and it sounds as though I am back in the woods.

In my reading this afternoon, I come across this passage in Adam Nicholson’s Bird School, which Rachel gave me for Christmas last year but that I am just getting to this week:

“Our gardens and farms, our houses, porches, lean-tos, gazebos and birdhouses are statements of power and possession but also more than that. Are they not a performance and expression of who and what we are? Plant a line of roses up to the front door, or fill the flowerbeds around it with aromatic herbs, improve the grazing, build a shed, pasture the cattle and you are engaging with land and space not merely as an owned thing but as a kind of show, a demonstration of a certain kind of life and even belief.”

I look out into our yard, which is still thick with cup plants from the summer, the yellowing remnants of Solomon’s seal, and two big, beautiful oak-leaf hydrangeas. It is a messy forest margin of its own. The kinglets and butterflies and bees like it, like we do.

Footnotes

[1] For another fall chorus frog, see my “Table Talk” piece from The Threepenny Review 182, Summer 2025, originally entitled “A November Frog.”

3:30 p.m., ca. 60F, sunny

Rachel and I have returned from a week away to find Downers Grove cool and lovely, sunny, the crickets trilling slow and low. I enter Lyman Woods from the hospital parking lot to find the ephemeral pond full of water and sinking dead leaves and the opening to the woods clogged with overgrown branches. It takes me three tries to find the entry. The path is obscured by a cardstock-thick layer of pale yellow white pine needles. They are falling all over our driveway as well, not the “smoky gold” of Aldo Leopold’s October tamarack needles, signalling nonetheless the middle of autumn when, after having given all they can for 2 or 3 years, they drop to make way for the new ones. The mechanic up the street from us changed our air filter a few weeks ago. His mom, who appears to run the business side of the place, said he’s a stickler for changing the filters, said folks have no idea how filthy the air can get inside their car. She handed me our old filter as I paid her. “This is what you’ve been breathing,” she said. The filter looked clean to me but for a thick layer of pine needles and pin oak leaves. This is what we get for not parking our car in the garage.

White oak acorn caps speckle the trail. It is a mast year, and they have fallen in abundance. The acorns themselves seem to be germinating slowly. My notes on this are spotty, but I recall the white oak acorns germinating soon after they hit the trail in previous years. Perhaps this is my imagination. Some are germinating today, slick, stout white roots hugging the side of the acorn wall or heading straight down into the soil, cotyledons pushed away from the root-shoot interface by about a half inch on paired petioles. Others are not so lucky. The tip of one acorn has a crater in its tip, its embryo neatly excised, a trick that grey squirrels use to prevent germination in the cache. The acorn is all food now and no baby plant. Another has a weevil hole in its side. I bite it open hoping to find evidence of Temnothorax ants, which I have still never found, but instead I get only a thimbleful of weevil frass.

A gratuitously phallic cluster of _Laccaria_ mushrooms sprawls below a bouquet of shagbark hickory resprouts. A bunch of honeysuckle seedlings are 3–5 leaf-pairs high and bracing themselves for winter. Several buckthorn seedlings have grown just past the cotyledon stage to put out a single pair of tiny true leaves. Someone has lined the trail edge with fallen branches, but the path is still little-enough used to allow a white oak seedling to grow entirely unmolested right in the middle. Apparently everyone who walks this way steps around it.

Blue jays are calling. A flock of starlings or blackbirds click and cluck overhead. A crow calls in the distance. A circular saw squeals intermittently from a nearby backyard. Perfoliate-leaved bellwort leaves are senescing from the center outward, starry wreaths with slender yellow tips that dart outward along the larger veins. Joe-pye weed fruits have ripened to a light gray. White snakeroot fruits are as white as the fur on a deer mouse’s underbelly. Black snakeroot fruits are blackened and falling from the stem.

A cluster of dirty-white mushrooms grows at the base of a red oak. Nestled against the base of the tree is a knot of abortive entoloma. A few feet away, a clump of abortive entoloma the size of my fist rises like pizza dough, and from the same individual rises a grayish mushroom cap. The doughy stuff is called a carpophoroid. It is formed when abortive entoloma parasitizes the fruiting body of Armillaria, the genus of fungi that produce the creeping black rhizoids you often find under tree bark after the tree dies and its bark begins to slough off. The carpophoroid is the only form of abortive entoloma that I’ve recognized before. I’m glad to know now what it looks like when it is not entangled with Armillaria.

Pear-shaped puffballs have colonized a fallen log. I squeeze one expecting either white flesh or spores, but instead the mushroom spurts out a filthy ooze. This must be the grossest stage of the puffball’s growth until it actually decomposes. A memorable passage about an ersatz sausage comes to mind, from George Orwell’s Coming Up For Air:

“The frankfurter had a rubber skin, of course, and my temporary teeth weren’t much of a fit. I had to do a kind of sawing movement before I could get my teeth through the skin. And then suddenly–pop! The thing burst in my mouth like a rotten pear. A sort of horrible soft stuff was oozing all over my tongue. But the taste! For a moment I just couldn’t believe it. Then I rolled my tongue round it again and had another try. It was fish! A sausage, a thing calling itself a frankfurter, filled with fish! I got up and walked straight out without touching my coffee. God knows what that might have tasted of.”

Rotten fish in a rubber skin. Bombs of filth bursting inside your mouth. A surprisingly apt description for a fungus that I nonetheless like very well, usually.

A buck snorts near the middle of this southern end of the forest. A fly floats slowly by, coming into view in a shaft of sunlight and then fading out in the shade. The forest is letting itself go all around me, yellowing and fading, crisping, growing stale. A few Short’s aster flowers, cupcake-frosting blue, are the only splashes of color left aside from shades of green, yellow, and brown.

A flock of golden-crowned kinglets whistles in, squeaking as they glean from branch to branch. One passes in front of me, too dull to be sure of. Perhaps it’s a warbler rather than a kinglet? I don’t know for sure. I should have brought my binoculars.

I head home to start supper.

1 p.m., 60F, sunny

The first pull-off on the boardwalk into Ridges Sanctuary overlooks open water with beds of sedges running off in both directions. Ordinarily I stop at these open-water swales for rosettes of spatterdock and flowering sedge culms craning up toward the boardwalk. Today, I am drawn in by a flash of wings across the background of trees. There appear to be three empidonax flycatchers banking out over the sedges to extract the insects. I have binoculars with me and study each of them. But they are intent on hunting and pay no attention to one another, and consequently they do not sing. So I cannot tell what species they are: I know them only by their calls, a “quick-three-beers” or “fitz-bew” or “che-bek” setting the species apart. Like screams and sirens and whistles of cicadas, flashes of lightning bugs, sonograms ticking across a laptop as bats fly overhead, the songs of empidonax flycatchers are all I know to differentiate them.

They are in their element here, carving up the air with the ease of figure skaters looping and leaping and spinning, working the rink from edge to center to corner. They are in charge, and they know it. The yellow-rumped warblers are working the field alongside the flycatchers, sturdier and more conservative, making shorter flights out. They command less of the airspace. They were not built for this: they are opportunistic insect-catchers.

A palm warbler shows up, bobs his tail, senses he’s out of his league and retreats to the shrubs. Pine siskins keep a noisy watch from the tops of the pines and spruces. A brown creeper lisps its way upward along a tree trunk. Cicadas squeal. Chickadees buzz. A white butterfly circles upward at the margin of a tree.

The birds move on to greener pastures. Only then do I hear something buzzing and gnawing in the sedges at the edge of the swale. Bogbean leaves are beached on the mud flats.

Further on, I hear a few white-throated sparrows in the bushes beside the trail. I crouch down but see them only in glimpses as they flit from branch to branch. Again, a buzzing, sizzling, gnawing sound in the sedges, a grasshopper stridulating, I suspect. Blue jays screech. Crickets purr. Cars roar by on the highway about 300 feet away.

The boardwalk crosses a slough of Carex lasiocarpa and twig nut-rush. I pass the trail running between the lighthouses and get to the warm sand blanketed with creeping juniper, edged with white pines and boles of leaning white cedar. Chickadees are chasing each other through the trees, lisping and honking. A white-throated sparrow warbles its way southward. A nuthatch calls once, quite a ways to the east. A damselfly lands on the warm sandy trail and settles its wings down in 1, 2, 3 steps. I sneak toward it. Is it green? It flies off, wary enough and smart enough not to let me get close.

Without warning, a red squirrel goes off behind me, sputtering and chattering, out of his mind, furious that I should be there, so close. I follow him into the trees and he bounds carelessly between branches, stopping periodically to harangue me. He stares at me. Then he races away and out of view. A solitary, late-season spring peeper squeaks from 30 feet away.

The trail parallels the ridges arching eastward, then it cuts north across the swales. These ridges and swales repeat the same themes again and again as I cross them: sandy ridge of pine and wintergreen and trailing arbutus; wet mossy forest; swale of Carex lasiocarpa and Carex oligosperma; wet mossy forest again; repeat. Yet it isn’t exactly the same each time. This swale has a fallen log with a pitcher plant growing on it; the last one was a bed of Carex trisperma. And each swale is the same from year to year, but also not exactly: I passed this log 13 months ago, and I saw the very same pitcher plant, only this time the flowering stalk is up. The whole place is like this. The dwarf lake iris are always here, but this year every colony seems larger, and they are in places where I don’t remember seeing them before. This year’s dry trail is the same dry trail it was one year ago, but this October afternoon it is lit up with white amanites. Ridges and swales, seasons of the year, beauty encased in the balance between repetition and novelty.

I have reached the east end of the preserve. I take a moment to root around in the soil for the slender, threadlike golden rhizomes of Coptis trifolia, then I begin the brisk walk back. The dragonflies are flying low over the boardwalk at Solitude Swale. A flicker flies off from the wooded trail into the forest. A belted kingfisher rattles as I reach the visitor center.

The robins have given up on the early morning, and once again I’ve managed not to catch them in the act. Each year I wake up on a July morning and there are cardinals singing, not robins, and I can’t tell you when the robins stopped their morning racket. This year I’ve got it down to a two-week window: on June 26, the robins were working noisily in the backyard by 4:00 in the morning; on July 12, I realized at 5:00 a.m. that the cardinals were starting up, but the robins never had. I’ll try to narrow it down a little more next year.

A few notes from the past three weeks:

The morning of June 30, two green-spored parasols are unfurling lushly in an immaculate lawn at the intersection of Grant and Lee. That evening, as I bike home they are completely open, as big around as the husks of flayed grapefruits. By the next morning they’ve been kicked off their stalks and are dessicating belly-up on the grass. I’m sorry not to watch them grow old and putrid in place. I bet they’ll be back again next year.

On the evening of July 3, the trail into Lyman Woods from the hospital parking structure is crowded with ash seedlings. Emerald ash borer, which will do these in before they can reach reproductive age, is in the meantime working its way across the European Union, a fact I learned the day before. A flooded section of trail through Lyman Woods is draped with hog-peanut. Wood nettles are waist high. Leaves on a hispid buttercup are as big as dinner plates. Woodland tick-trefoil is fruiting, floral buds on the Joe-pye weed inflorescences are closed but raised high enough to look me in the eye, blackberry fruits are hard and green, and narrow-leaved wild leek seeds are developing inside green sheaths that, scratched away, reveal the black seed coats. False nettle spikes are erect and full of flowers. White grass tugs at my legs. Poison ivy spills onto the trails. Heal-all is flowering light blue. Beanlike follicles are developing on poke milkweed, slender and elongate and standing erect at the ends of sinuous peduncles. The forest is mosquitoey and saturated, filled with songs of indigo buntings, cicadas, great-crested flycatchers, eastern wood pewees. Everything is lush or rotting. A great big Carex sparganioides in full fruit is leaning across the trail. A red-bellied woodpecker barks and a flicker calls. House wrens noisily occupy the backyards.

Maple Grove is sunny and 80F when I arrive the evening of July 11. Two cicada species are singing full blast, and I resolve to learn their songs as soon as I get home. Tall bellflower is sprawling and gangly, blue flowers emerging from bullet-shaped buds. Bottlebrush grass goes to pieces at a touch. Elderberry flowers are ripening into berries. A common gall midge has laid its eggs in the midribs of some of the jewelweed leaves, and they are swollen and turgid. Common coral slime mold (Ceratiomyxa) sporangia have withdrawn and are visible only in little patches here and there; the little rice grains of white carnival candy slime mold (Arcyria) have emerged in their place. The fallen log where I learned Cribraria several years ago has rotted almost entirely into the ground, only about 6 inches left to go.

Broad-leaved wild leek is on the cusp of anthesis, floral buds white and tensed to open. A week later, the flowers will all be open, fireworks on the forest floor. Upright hedge-parsley is dotted with tiny white flowers. Fowl manna grass spikelets fall by the handful, husks clattering on the leaves. A plumpish, soft mayapple dangles from between the paired leaves, its stalk broken. It will not ripen.

In the last half-hour of my walk, a wood pewee and a great horned owl call. Fireflies twinkle in the shrub layer, waist high and below, reminding me of a night almost 35 years earlier when a friend and I stood temporarily lost on a recreational portage in a waist-high pool of fog in a northern Wisconsin bog, pricked with fireflies, until we were saved by a group of co-counselors singing “hava nagila” to lead us back to camp. Cicadas are still purring as I walk cross the bridge over St. Joseph Creek toward home.

Then the next morning, June 12, Rachel and I canoe Silver Lake at Blackwell Forest Preserve, and water milfoil is in bloom. Fish are everywhere, Chara is brittle and stinking beneath the water’s surface, there are ducks galore. Rachel watches a green heron hunting, then we both watch it fly off. We work our way around the lake. I spend several minutes listening to the contented nibbling sounds of ducks floating and grazing along the shoreline.

Today, I am reminded that even if they are quiet in the mornings, the robins are not done with us. One lost its composure about 10 minutes after the 4:50 cardinals this morning, chittering for about 2 seconds. And at the end of our walk around the neighborhood, Brooklyn and I came across a robin in the middle of the sidewalk, picking at a tightly-rolled woolly bear caterpillar. The robin flew off as we approached. I rolled the caterpillar around gently, but it did not uncoil. I picked it up and pulled at it a bit, and it wriggled its feet just perceptibly and held tight. It appeared to be just fine. I set it in the grass before Brooklyn and I went in.

Thursday morning, 10 members of our lab group converged on Warren Woods Ecological Field Station in Berrien County, Michigan for our fourth collecting trip. Over the past year and half, we’ve been collecting herbarium specimens for the field station and our own herbarium to document the flora of the site and build up a teaching collection. WWEFS has the sort of bottomland forest that, even if it’s been cut over, still yields something interesting on every visit. The sandy soils on the ridges are forested with beeches and oaks, beechdrops and dwarf ginseng. The slopes are sedgy and ferny. The floodplain is filled with silt that has run down the slope and that pulls at your boots after big rains, but sand is still exposed in the bottom of stream flowing through. Ashes and elms grow in the bottomland with paw paws, fountains of sedges, skunk cabbage. The fallen logs are mossy, and many are sodden and host diverse gardens of grasses and ferns and forbs.

As we collected, a female ebony jewelwing–Calopteryx maculata, the genus name coming from the Greek for “beautiful” and “wing”–flew a slow flap-pause, flap-pause bouncing flight that seemed choreographed in part to showcase its white-tipped black wings. This damselfly species is spectacular and, in my experience, only and almost always in forests of just this kind. Several times I have seen it flying through a forest I was in for the first time just before I found a wet depression or a river. When we lived in southern France for a semester, I would bike the back way to work, sometimes following a creek through a sandy woods. There, too, I would see a Calopteryx looping by, presumably a different species. The ebony jewelwing is an icon of these river-bottom forests I love best.

Red-eyed vireos sang incessantly. Mayapples fruits were unripe, but most had been chewed off or simply fell early. Rain of the previous week brought out jelly fungus running the length of downed logs and a red raspberry slime mold exuding thick cytoplasm. Carex prasina and C. laevivaginata inflorescences had shattered; Carex grayi inflorescences were full. Narrow-leaved wild leeks were flowering. We collected what we could find in flower and washed the muddiest sedge roots in the shallow-running river.

We lunched indoors, then we walked out to a wet meadow along the road where water was standing and poison ivy grew everywhere. Marsh pea flowered alongside the gravel road. I waded into the water and came out with a rush, returned for a Carex vulpinoidea, went back in for three big flowering dogbane plants. We pressed them and then got more from along the road: sassafras, slippery elm, a couple of ashes, another sedge (Carex cristatella). A tree frog called as we pressed. I walked back to the car to get the pruning shears, and a green frog called from the marsh, like the sound of a plucked cello string. We drove home in late afternoon, past the flocks of billboards for lawyers (“Top dog gets you top dollar!”), who must make their money on traffic just like this. It took us about twice as long to get home as it had taken to get there.

Friday morning, the first robin of the day babbled noisily in our backyard at 3:00 and then was silent. By 3:20, a few robins were singing in other yards, and by about 3:30 they were going in full force everywhere. The morning traffic started up on Fairview Avenue around 4:00. At 4:50, a cardinal whistled in the tree outside our window. A minute later, a mourning dove sang. Two minutes later, a second cardinal. I wondered whether we might be nearing the late-summer pivot point, when morning robins in our neighborhood will give way to morning cardinals, but it’s still too early. Give them a few more weeks. Everyone quieted down then. At 5:00, our neighbor’s sprinkler went on.[1]

I read and wrote for a bit, walked Brooklyn, had breakfast with my son, then biked into work. I locked up at Big Rock Visitor Station. Silvery burs were forming on the branch tips of licorice bedstraw, and green burs the size of tiny sweat bees were loose in the inflorescences of the sanicles. Lopseed spikes were flowering from the bases upward, many wearing a single ruff of flowers at the waist. The lower flowers were reflexed and ripening to pale fruit. Down the trail, black hairy sweet cicely fruits were hardening up. Enchanter’s nightshade were in full bloom: tiny, white, four-petaled flowers with plump inferior ovaries blew like trumpets on the spikes. Bottlebrush grass spikelets stood perpendicular to the stem but still hinged at the base and mobile, dribbling anthers from between the scales.

Rain was threatening. The mosquitoes were making pests of themselves. They buzzed in my ear and all around my face, balled up on my neck as I slapped them. Inflorescences on joe-pye weed were bunched as tight as cauliflower florets. Short’s asters two months from flowering were chest high. Leaf miners had carved trails through the jewelweed leaves. Solomon’s plume bore tough berries the size of BBs. A wood pewee sang, and a red-eyed vireo continued singing, as it’s been doing and will continue to do all summer long.

There is an impressive patch of broad-leaved plantain at the intersection of the Woodland Trail loop going counterclockwise toward the east and the return loop from the north. They must be getting everything they need in this weather: their leaves were almost as big as frisbees, and their flowering spikes were knee-high. Beside them, the first flowers were forming on pale jewelweed, self-pollinated fruits turgid and lumpy beneath. The Canada wild onions were tipped with papery-sheathed bulblets that detached easily. Collecting a handful was like gleaning tiny onions. The narrow-leaved wild leeks were already setting seed, perhaps a full two weeks ahead of the Berrien County leeks we had seen the previous day. The seeds were enclosed tightly in a fleshy knot at the tip of the spathe: scratch the flesh, and the black seed coats shone through the wound. The crowns of yellowing rue anemone leaves formed splashes of light in the understory. Woodland tick-trefoil was flowering.

A flicker called. A light rain pattered against the canopy. Red-eyed vireo and indigo bunting sang. Hog-peanut twined along the trail over hackberry seedlings, asters, bottlebrush grasses. The wind picked up, and as I walked further east, it dropped down to meet me, cool and moist on my face, pushing the mosquitoes away temporarily. There’s been a lot of cutting in this forest in the past year, and the outcome is nice right now: beneath the oaks grows a thick lawn of zigzag goldenrod, joe-pye weed, Short’s aster, a goldenrod whose name I never remember, apices of twining hog-peanut, ash seedlings, daisy fleabane. Most of the mayapple fruits were nipped off or fallen, the unripe fruits perhaps pilfered by squirrels. Though I’ve never seen an animal take one.

Wild ginger seeds buried inside the ripened ovaries have darkened to a deep chestnut brown. A bed of clearweed grew soft and glassy on the naked soil. Rubbery fruits about the length of rice grains and half as thick were forming on the honeworts. A colony of 100 or more pokeweed plants at the east end of the Woodland Trail loop, ranging from belly-height to roughly seven feet, were sprouting spikes of small, white flowers.

The mosquitoes became incessant, crawling in my ears and nose and buzzing around my eyes. I picked up my pace. A house wren called from the field beneath the ComEd lines. A white-breasted nuthatch sang. Ahead of me, a man was sitting on a bench, conducting business quietly on his phone. He was wearing loafers with no socks, and I thought of the mosquitoes that must be feasting on his ankles, but I didn’t want to stare. He appeared unperturbed. He stood and walked slowly behind me as I walked past the bench, still talking quietly. I passed a colony of pale jewelweed, then a patch of Agaricus mushrooms that had opened to a diameter of about six inches, with thick caps that split along the edges as they’ve grown, dark gills beneath, a short, distinct ring around the stipe. One patch of two or three caps was decomposing lushly, smelling like death.

Twenty feet behind me, I heard the man in the loafers raise his voice to ask a question that sounded rhetorical. Then I smelled something rotting again and stopped to look for it. Thirdy seconds passed as I searched, standing still. The man passed me, walking slowly and perfectly erect, a slight lift at each step, almost floating along the trail. His hand was on his head as though he were caught mid-thought. His call was over, his lips were slightly parted, and he was scanning the woods as though he had never seen this kind of place before, or perhaps as though he sensed he knew it and was just trying to place it. Yet he also had the look of someone who is utterly at home here, and perhaps everywhere. He was in no hurry. I admired his focus and his cool, but I could not tell: was he here, or was he a thousand miles away, talking through a design or a plan or closing a deal, still asking questions? The mosquitoes calmed down and the rain completed. I retrieved my bike and went into work.

That night at 8:30, the first cicada I’ve noticed this year sang a long, pulsing song from the far end of our block just as the lightning bugs were coming out. Saturday evening, Rachel came home after a month out east. We walked Brooklyn and worked in the yard. Rachel pulled the garlic. The bulbs are the size of racquetballs. Glade mallow has taken over the rain garden, and it is magnificent.

Note: [1] This bird sequence actually combines Friday and Saturday mornings. But the sequence is general enough that it may well have happened on Friday as well, and I just missed part of it.

Coral slime molds caught me by surprise Saturday morning, spreading like hoarfrost on the sides of downed ashes. With them, equally unexpected, were a scattering of wolfs milk: delicate, rubbery orange spheres that bleed fluorescent goo when you squeeze them. These two slime molds popped out a couple of weeks earlier than I expected. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for Cribraria and Arcyria as well, their comrades-in-arms. Narrow leaved wild leeks were on the cusp of flowering, edges of the white petals showing from behind the separating green petals like the hem of a slip. I let Brooklyn run down hill into St. Joseph Creek. She splashed around and looked back up at my friend and his dog and me. Then she ran back up the hill to us. She stood patiently as I picked her leash back up then shook river water on us. My friend was impressed that Brooklyn would just come back like that when there’s such a nice river to play in, then stand still to be taken again by the leash. What could I do but agree? Brooklyn is that kind of dog.

It’s the onset of the green lull, and little has changed at Maple Grove in the last week. Also, I haven’t written up my notes from last weekend. So, from a sunny 7:45 on Sunday morning, June 7, in order:

• Northern parula warbler and a blue-gray gnatcatcher at the margin of the woods as I walk in. Behind us, a yellow warbler in the neighbor’s shrubs. Chimney swifts overhead.
• Great-crested flycatcher. Red-bellied woodpecker. A blue jay. Robins and an eastern wood pewee.
• Path rushes immature, slender and prickly.
• Recurved buttercup fruits ripe and ready to fall, breaking easily from the receptacle.
• Carex rosea fruits ripe as well, the plant slenderer than I would have expected, but undoubtedly this species, stigmas thick and black and tightly coiled at the tips of the perigynium beaks. The Carex davisii fruits I somehow missed on the way in: they’re nowhere to be seen, like the serviceberries at the church lot down the street that I’ve pilfering (faithfully) for 17 years. Carex cephalophora heads yellowing.
• Oak catkins strewn across the poison ivy and virginia creeper.
• Fowl mannagrass inflorescences shattering, raining spikelets onto the trail.
• Mosquitos in my ear.
• Jays and red-eyed vireos singing. Great-crested flycatcher blasting. Cardinal whooping. Eastern wood pewee whistling. The 8:00 a.m. churchbell.
• Beams of sunlight slanting diagonally through the trees, casting patches of light on the forest floor. Cranefly moving through.
• Senescing Enemion, flecks of pale yellow.
• Mayapple fruits gone on a few plants I pass, before they could reach maturity.
• A big, burly bee–carpenter bee? bumblebee?–patrolling over the leaf litter, alighting, moving off.
• An abandoned tennis ball; Brooklyn doesn’t even care.
• Two narrow-leaved wild leek scapes standing right next to each other, practically holding hands at the base of a sugar maple, inflorescences still hooded, the flowers practically wriggling inside, the long-tipped spathe about to split open.
• A red eyed vireo.
• Zigzag goldenrod knee-high. Beggars’ ticks thigh- to waist-high.
• Another patch of mayapple, about half the fruits gone.
• Sprawling yellowed bluegrass.
• Wreckage of Virginia bluebells that has died back for the season.
• A colony of broad-leaved white bear sedge where I saw a thicket of seedlings almost exactly a year ago.  

The last two nights I’ve walked up and through Lyman Woods a bit after sunset. Poke milkweed plants are colluding at the top of a hill, in indulgent flower. This is the second time this year I’m struck by how many there are here. A deer surprised me on my walk through, standing so close to the trail I could have run over and tagged it. This is of course not true: I could no more have tagged that deer than Brooklyn could capture any of the hundreds of squirrels or bunnies she runs after in our yard. Neither of us is handy in that way.

Saturday night I was talking with Rachel on the phone as the lights went out in the forest. We don’t usually talk on the phone while we’re in the woods, but it was nice to hear her voice as the fireflies were going off all around. It was dark where she was, and it was dark where I was, and her voice was right in my ear, which made it seem like we were standing in the same darkness together. We finished our conversation. I stood and watched the lightning bugs glowing intermittently in the sunflowers. The edges of the leaves faded into one another. The forest grew darker, the lightning bugs brighter. I could barely see my feet as I walked out.

On the way home, a minor miracle: as I approached the frozen custard place, bemoaning the fact that I had forgotten my wallet, but applauding myself that I would saving money and also not eating unnecessary frozen custard, I found a forgotten five dollar bill in my pocket. I got a small chocolate cone, which comes with two scoops. It was a little crooked, a little tippy, but it was good and cold.

I was just uphill from Big Rock Visitor Station Thursday morning, biking to work on the road leading into the Arboretum, when I saw a robin fly low over the pavement like a plane with engine trouble. It seemed to have bitten off more than it could chew. It was wrestling against the thing in its bill as it skittered to a halt. Had I not been biking towards it, the robin might have prevailed. Instead, with no time to wrestle its foe into submission, it flew off, leaving the thing on the pavement, and as I biked past I couldn’t tell at first what it had left. A very large moth? Perhaps, but why drop this one? A robin carries so many things so capably: snails and earthworms, bundles of sticks, terrible-tasting caterpillars. This thing looked like the silhouette of a boulder shrunken to the size of a silver dollar. I turned around and set my bike down to see what it was.

The robin’s burden turned out to be a young crayfish. It was still glistening with moisture. It propped back on its tail as I approached, planted its feet, aimed its long antennae and snout at the sky, and raised its open claws. It was frozen in fighting position. Years ago we had a smallish but scrappy cat named Fire. I once watched Fire leap up at a swooping hawk, claws out and back arched, to try to pull the bird out of the air. What was that cat thinking? The hawk would have torn him to pieces. Yet I would not have wanted to tangle with Fire if I were that hawk, and I would not have wanted to carry this crayfish if I were the robin. In fact, I was a little nervous about picking it up myself, but I had to get it off the road. I surveyed it from all sides. It watched me back, unmoving. It was implacable. What would this crayfish have done, had the robin gotten it back to the nest? Would it have eviscerated the chicks one by one? Or tormented them until the parent robin, exasperated, said, “Enough!” and returned it to the marsh? After a few moments I mustered my courage and grasped it firmly but gently by the sides, certain it would tear a hole in my finger. It did not. I set it beneath the trees and biked into work.

There were storms that afternoon. While I revised text and met with staff, raindrops hammered the leaves, banging against leaf rollers, leaf miners, larvae tucked tight into galls, aphids. They pummelled caterpillars and spiders holed up at the edges of their webs, ticks and craneflies. A friend poked her head into my office and said she didn’t want to be intrusive, but would I like a ride home? She had room for me and my bike. But I could see a break in the rain was coming, so I said no, thank you; and when it arrived, I took my opportunity. As I biked out through Crowley Marsh, a red-headed woodpecker swooped low over the road, wings flashing white. It landed on a bur oak in the middle of the low savanna and was joined by another. I watched them for awhile, then biked home past a corral of burbling cowbirds.

There was a tornado warning that night. The boys and Brooklyn and I retreated to the basement for 20 minutes. The cats wandered down to join us. It was a real party. We texted Rachel photos. We finished off a carton of ice cream from the deep freeze. The weather passed.

A singing chorus frog greeted me the next morning, Friday, as I biked in past the oxbow just north of the Ginko Collection. That evening, I took the train downtown for the Grant Park Music Festival. A pair of pigeons were pecking at each other on the sidewalk, either bickering or kissing. I suspect the latter. One flew up to an electrical junction box mounted on the side of an office building about 8 feet above the sidewalk and was quickly joined by the second. They kept pecking at each other even on that little box. They were still going at it as I walked away.

I expected every seat at Millennium Park concert shell to be filled and the lawn densely packed with blankets and picnic baskets. Apparently many in Chicago weren’t interested in this particular night of free music. It was a perfect evening, and I sat next to a gentleman a bit younger than my dad would be if he were still alive, hunched over a book with a canvas bag at his feet. I took out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had saved for this moment and made it last as long as I could, which was about 2 minutes, maybe less, tearing it into pieces as one does with a good PB&J and relishing them individually. Cardinals and cedar waxwings were singing in the armature overhead.

The conductor, Giancarlo Guerrero, emerged to enthuiastic applause and told us about the first piece the orchestra would be playing, Charles Ives’ “Variations on America,” which I believe Guerrero said Ives had written at the age of 17. It was fun, but my mind wandered. Then, without a word of introduction, they began the piece I had come for, Brahms Symphony No. 4 in E minor. It was beautiful. The sun was setting as the orchestra played. Starlings (I think, I wasn’t sure) copulated briskly–a bit too briskly, as songbirds do–on the strut that ran behind and to the right of the string section. The woman in the seat ahead of me pulled out her phone and turned Merlin on, set it to listen for birds. I watched her phone for a minute as it thought, distracted by the music. “Would you mind if I skipped the birds, just this time,” it might have asked, “and listened to the symphony? This 2nd movement is wonderful.” Instead, it silently returned no answer, and after a minute she turned it off. Her husband took videos at intervals throughout the symphony.

When the Symphony ended, the couple in front of me left, along with about a third of the audience. I had thought this would be the end of the evening, but it was just intermission! I read through the break and watched the sunset crawl up the Aon Center to the north of Millennium Park and up the side of Harbor Point, the condominium building on Lake Shore Drive to the east, wishing I had packed a second sandwich. I scrounged around in my bag and found an apple. I watched the cardinals and cedar waxwings coming and going. A gull flew overhead.

Only when Guerrero spoke again to announce the last piece did I see that a choir had walked in, silently, to fill the entire back of the stage. Guerrero described the piece, “Conquest Requiem” by Gabriela Lena Frank. The piece is based on the history of La Malinche, a Nahua woman from the gulf coast of what is now Mexico who was sold into slavery in the 16th Century. She served as a translator and interpreter, had a child with Hernán Cortés, helped enable the Spanish conquest of the Aztec Empire. Her history is complicated. I had never heard a thing about it until Guerrero’s story. The music is haunting, beautiful in places, vast for a piece that lasts only 40 minutes. I have a very limited vocabulary for this kind of thing. I drifted along with the music. In the fifth movement, “Rex tremendae,” the chorus abruptly stood up and, as one voice, sang from the Dies irae, Rex tremendae majestatis qui salvandos salva gratis, salva me, fons pietatis. “King of awful majesty, who freely savest the redeemed, save me, O fount of goodness.” The music filled the park and spilled out into the city.

I walked back to the train, talking with Rachel on the phone about the storms of the previous night, which had reached her by the next day, the afternoon of the concert. I stood outside the plate glass window of a bar as we talked, watching the U.S. playing Paraguay. I walked to Union Station and read on the platform, waiting for the train. We boarded, and I dozed intermittently, reading the same few paragraphs over and over, until we reached Fairview Avenue. I walked home, passing over St. Joseph Creek at about 10:30. It was bubbling quietly through the culvert that passes beneath Austin Street.

Yesterday morning was cool enough to bike comfortably, but the temperature was rising and the air growing saturated, and it would stay that way, as it is now while I write and the cat is in the window watching birds in the pine tree, suddenly realizing there is a milkbone for the dog on the bedstand, which, if he plays his cards right—if Mittens, the cat, plays his cards right—will be cat food momentarily. But in yesterday’s still morning, on the road that leads toward Big Rock Visitor Station, there were anxious calls like the whines of hungry birds who don’t know if they will ever eat again. I stopped my bike and looked high. Nothing. My eyes drifted around, then they settled on a red oak trunk where two baby raccoons were stacked one above the other, shrieking. Another raccoon was calling from high overhead, out of view, but stopped. Perhaps it was the parent, shouting helpful directions, as parents like to do. The two babies kept calling and looking my way. I did not want to agitate them further, but I did stay long enough to watch the upper one crawl downslope over its sibling, lose its footing, roll over its sibling’s back and tumble six feet to the ground, where it picked itself up and climbed the tree again. They were still shouting as I biked away.

At the end of the day I returned home, where I made supper and sat outside with Brooklyn for a few hours. Brooklyn wandered around the yard, chased a squirrel running across the top of the fence, lay in the ferns beneath the pear tree. I started a fire. I read the last three chapters of Steve Brusatte’s epic The Story of Birds, which recounts the long history of bird evolution from dinosaurs to today, with terror birds and demon ducks and dodos and a host of other exotics long gone, some that overlapped with humans, most that we can only know from fossils. Robins moved around the yard picking up nesting material, sticking their noses into piles of leaves. Brooklyn meandered over to drink from her kiddie pool, then returned to lie next to my chair. I played with her ears as I read. The night grew dark enough that I had to step out from beneath the pear tree to finish the book, squeezing out the last light of the day while standing close to the fire, letting the sweet dry heat rise up under my shirt. At about 9 p.m. I finished. “Let’s enjoy birds during this moment we share the world together.”

I let Brooklyn inside, as she wanted nothing more than to sneak up to our bed to lie down, and walked toward Lyman Woods.

Jupiter and Venus were paired low on the horizon, following the sun slowly downward behind our neighbors’ houses. I followed the clouds northward. They were piled high, masses glowing the color of ripe peaches on the west side, every lobe cast into relief by the setting sun. Rachel and I texted back and forth as I walked, the light dimming. I crossed Ogden Avenue, walked northward. Rachel texted me a photo of a snake winding sideways across a tree trunk. The toads started singing as Sterling Avenue dipped down toward the east side of the wetland that feeds into Lacey Creek. Two lightning bugs came out. I wrote Rachel about the toads and lightning bugs. We wished we were walking together. We said goodnight and I put my phone away.

I don’t like to use a flashlight when I walk trails at night, because it messes up your night vision. You don’t see anything except the ring of light right at your feet. You hear less, you think less about the trail. Also, when I walk trails at night without a flashlight, I kind of feel like a badass. I’m not proud of that. I think walking without a flashlight is a net positive: yes, I’ve stubbed my toes and fallen at times; yes, I’ve had some disorienting moments. But I learn more about a site by walking it at night, and I like the experience of not feeling familiar with a trail I’ve walked hundreds of times previously, just during the day. Sometimes it’s a little scary. When I was 20ish, I thought I’d like to experience a bog at night as a fox or coyote or raccoon experiences it, so I walked to the bog at the camp where I was working, sans flashlight, and crawled through the sphagnum. This was great, really enriching, a little gooshy on the knees, but within a minute I became frantically and irrationally frightened that I might come nose-to-nose with a bear in the dark, scare it, and that would be the end of my face and, most likely, of me. I stood up, returned to the trail, and ran back to my cabin.

The trails through Lyman Woods are as hard as pavement. You cannot not feel them under your feet. I walked in along the trail that leads from the neighborhood to the east of the forest, followed it comfortably along, then, without warning, the ground under my feet was soft. Okay. No worries. I returned to the trail, followed it along again, and this time took what I felt to be the correct turn, but I was heading downslope toward Lacey Creek. Again, this was not right. I returned to the trail, tried a third time and somehow failed again. I took out my phone and turned on the light, and the trail resolved clearly. I followed it along the correct route.

But somehow even with my light, I ended up at a cul-de-sac I had never seen before. There were houses backing up along Lyman Woods, so perhaps I was beside one of these? Then I realized I was exactly where I had entered the woods. The trail had felt so natural because I was walking backward along the trail I had come in on.

At 20, I got turned around and didn’t worry about it. At 55, these moments make me think of John Cheever’s middle-aged swimmer, making his way across the county from one pool to the next, becoming increasing exhausted, standing disheveled at the side of the road before he gets to the next backyard pool, looking up at the night sky at one point and finding that he cannot recognize the constellations. I think of On Golden Pond. I think of my grandpa sitting alone in the dark because, we only began to suspect years later, he no longer had the confidence to walk on his own.

But also I think, “dammit.” And so I closed my eyes for a few minutes to regain my night vision. Then I walked the trail without error into the woods.

Trails stretch out when you walk them in the dark. I know this is just perception, but I cannot help believing it’s also partly witchcraft. The trail through the brush toward the wetland was about two and a half times as long as usual, and many trees had been placed in my way since I last walked it. By contrast, the trail that follows the edge of marsh into the densest, nicest part of Lyman Woods is fairly open, and I could easily see. I reached the end of it, walked up into the forest, and immediately I was in a matrix of sparse gossamer, threads trailed between the trees adhering lightly to my glasses, my cheeks and beard, my forearms. The air with the gossamer in it was that much more feelable. I raised my arms above me and walked slowly uphill, remembering where the fallen logs were, remembering every step of this trail I started walking regularly in 2020. I walked the ridge, looking around at the white oaks in the dark. I walked the boardwalk, careful not to turn an ankle. I climbed over the big log. The gossamer was gone now, only moderately-cool evening air and a good walk toward the parking structure on the backside of the hospital.

On the way home, I passed the marsh where the toads were still droning from the cattails. The tall grasses were pricked with the flashes of lightning bugs. I reached home and called for Brooklyn. I could hear her plop off of our bed upstairs and, collar jingling, walk down the steps to greet me.

I can imagine a good life as a baby raccoon, tumbling down the tree trunk over my sibling, calling for mom, scared, but safe. But I like life at this age. I can talk myself down and continue on. I can think through problems I couldn’t at 30 and concentrate better than I could then. I can watch my boys grow and joke around with them. I know the joy of imagining Rachel’s voice in my ear as she texts me photos and thoughts from across the country. I got turned around on trails in the wilderness at 20 years old and survived. I’ll be getting turned around on trails as long as I persist in walking at night.