I speculate over some of the Anglo nomenclature of birds: Wilson's snipe, Forster's tern . . . : What natural images do these names conjure up in our minds? What integrity do we give back to the birds with our labels.

Hopefully there will come a time when I have no words, when I can honor and hold that kind of stillness that I so need, crave, and desire in the natural world.

To be whole. To be complete. Wildness reminds us what it means to be human, what we are connected to rather than what we are separate from.

There is an art to writing, and it is not always disclosure. The act itself can be beautiful, revelatory, and private.

I grew up in a culture in which it was a sin for a woman to speak out.

I write from the place of inquiry. The first draft is a discovery period to see what I know and what I don't know. My task is simply to follow the words. There are surprises along the way. I just have to get it down. Call it the sculptor's clay.

The birds and I share a natural history. It is a matter of rootedness, of living inside a place for so long that the mind and imagination fuse.