I was saddened to hear of the passing of Mary Oliver.

A poet that made me see truth in the natural world. The depths in the pure animal self.

In the mire of government shut downs and false poets being dropped from their record label I hear a singular voice taking a walk in the woods near her home. Aware. Taking in with the senses of a poet. The bear, egret, and the hawk. These encounters don’t bear headlines but to notice is to live in reality.

The greatest gift we have is our senses. Use them. Use them all. To read our world around us. Power off and power on to the sound of strong winds in rushes, the persistent call of a black phoebe, a red shouldered hawk arcing up to capture its perch, the rush of ants on the forest floor, clouds painting a moving canvas beyond the hands on human.

Mary paints in words, her words. I want to write like her but will never be her.

Her words in one of her most well known poems, Wild Geese, which ends:

Meanwhile the wild geese, high the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like wild geese, harsh and exciting-

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.