Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

Every spring I hear the thrush singing in the glowing woods he is only passing through. His voice is deep, then he lifts it until it seems to fall from the sky. I am thrilled. I am grateful. Then, by the end of morning, he's gone, nothing but silence out of the tree where he rested for a night. And this I find acceptable. Not enough is a poor life. But too much is, well, too much. Imagine Verdi or Mahler every day, all day. It would exhaust anyone.

Far off in the red mangroves an alligator has heaved himself onto a hummock of grass and lies there, studying his poems.

What can we do but keep on breathing in and out, modest and willing, and in our places?

The sea isn't a place but a fact, and a mystery.

And over one more set of hills, along the sea, the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness and are giving it back to the world. If I had another life I would want to spend it all on some unstinting happiness.

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing.