While human-built cairns are often purposeful and used for wayfinding, plenty of rock sculptures, labyrinth paths and stick mobiles are made — mostly — for fun. For meditative moments. For beauty.

(It’s worth mentioning the old “take only pictures, leave only footprints” environmental ethos here. Disturbing limbs, stones and leaves also disturbs salamanders, changes the flow of water, uproots ground cover. We should take care.)

And, the desire — to lift up, to point to, to decorate and celebrate and try to articulate — is ancient (see 51,200 year old cave paintings in Indonesia) and lasting (see Andy Goldsworthy et al). People carry on the tradition every day…

Haiku 14, 2026

Humans embellish
Each stone and stump is fodder
It’s a kind of praise

When our last dog Keeper was a puppy, he escaped out of our yard and I went tearing around the neighborhood calling his name. I eventually ran into someone who said, “Oh, I think I just saw him — at the house with the chickens?” My heart dropped. Chickens? Had our dog killed a neighbor’s chickens? I looked beseechingly at the dog-spotter who, recognizing my panic, said, “Oh, don’t worry. He was… frolicking with them!” And that’s really how Keeper was, his whole long life. A big lug but a total softie.

Well, apparently: redux. Because I discovered this morning that our new pup, Poppleton, admires ducks. There’s no other word for it. And who can blame him?

Haiku 13, 2026

There’s no kerfuffle
Just these concentric circles
Ducks, dog and water

Part of me living my best life is spending as much time as possible outside — running and walking and looking around. But I’m always torn about whether I want to explore and forge new paths or practice the ritual of repetition.

In the plus-one column for the latter is the chance to notice the seasonal — sometimes daily! — changes to the soil and water, flora and fauna. This is what surprised and delighted me this morning:

Haiku 12, 2026

Tender scalloped scoops
Ear horns appear overnight,
listen for secrets

It’s a moody Saturday in Austin, Texas. Gray, humid, steamy. But that doesn’t mean that nothing’s afoot.

Haiku 11, 2026

Drama of the day
waiting, ready in the wings
Curtains of clouds rise

Thank you, NASA, for letting us in on all the moon joy magic. I’m so glad the team is home safe and sound and, also, I wish it wasn’t over.

(Photo Credit: NASA)

Haiku 10, 2026

Parachutes open
wispy dandelion seeds
Our hearts are afloat

Seasonal allergies can be rough. They masquerade as the flu, for goodness sake! But the whole spectacle is really just the trees and flowers doing their business, spreading their love, surviving. Who are we to argue?

Haiku 9, 2026

Pollen drops like rain
painting the whole world yellow.
Why fight love’s splendor?

Change and uncertainty can be so scary and unsettling. Most of us like to know what’s what, at least some of the time! But these days I’m finding comfort in the transient, the ephemeral, the indefinite and unfixed. Nothing, not even all of this (*looks around wildly at the state of the world*) is forever.

The scientists and spiritual teachers tell us that things change, evolve, don’t last. That’s just the way it goes. But also, we can participate. We are so creative. We are ingenuous! We have great ideas. Our hearts are like engines. We make things happen. And before long, what was becomes something new… just like that.

Haiku 8, 2026

Nothing is static
They bend bamboo into boats
The wind comes in waves

It is hard to even shape words around what is happening on Earth right now, which might be why the bravery and curiosity and devotion and humor and generosity being evidenced in space — via the Artemis II mission — feels like good medicine. Or art. Or love. I’m here for it. I’m grateful.

Haiku 7, 2026

Seeds in a slipstream:
Humans, dancing with the moon.
We watch in wonder.

My oldest daughter has an album on her phone consisting completely of cloud photos. It’s no wonder. The sky is full of endless beauty, shape and mood. And sometimes, as curious humans, it is in really looking at something that we start to understand or make sense of it. Clouds nearly beg Rorschachian interpretation.

This submerged limb evoked the same desire in me. What is that? What does it look like? What does it mean? And who am I to say?

Haiku 6, 2026

Breaking the surface,
this insistent, antlered limb.
What lies underneath?

Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend about how much alone time we need. In a nutshell: More than other people need. Or at least that’s how it seems.

That’s not to say I don’t love people unspeakably much! I think that’s one of the things I love about poetry — and literature of all kinds. It allows us to connect so deeply while also giving us space. What magic!

Anyway, this morning on the trail I came upon this green heron. Sorry for the photo quality — he was not interested in posing or making his presence known. Lucky for him, almost everyone walked right on by. For some reason, herons always look kind of grumpy and hunched to me. Like a grandfather on a bad day. I kind of love ‘em for it, even though it’s probably not true. (Personification has its limitations.)

May you all find the space you need today. xo

Haiku 5, 2026

Grumpy green heron
hides like a knot in the tree
Nothing to see here