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Poem: “The Berkshires”
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The Secret Life of Birds
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Why Children Need Nature
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Made in the Image of God
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The Lords of Nature
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Editors’ Picks: The Opening of the American Mind
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Editors’ Picks: Klara and the Sun
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Writing in the Sand
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City of Bees
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Sister Dorothy Stang
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Midwestern Logistical Small Talk
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Covering the Cover: Creatures
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Love in the Marketplace
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The Elemental Strangeness of Foxes
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Saints and Beasts
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Astronomy According to Dante
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The Book of the Creatures
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Letters from Readers
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Vulnerable Mission in Action
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Community-Supported Agriculture in Austria’s Weinland
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My Forest Education
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Regenerative Agriculture
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Into the Sussex Weald
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The Abyss of Beauty
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Let the Body Testify
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Ernest Becker and Our Fear of Death
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Singing God’s Glory with Keith Green
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More Fish Than Sauce
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Return to Idaho
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The Glory of the Creatures
It’s not a path that takes you very far.
It starts across the field from where you’re standing
but only brings you back to where you are.
You try it, like a door that’s left ajar.
A little uphill climb, not too demanding;
it’s not a path that takes you very far.
It’s better, though, than sitting in the car.
The view, while not what you would call “commanding,”
at least gives you a sense of where you are.
Between two pines you glimpse the reservoir
where swallows briefly rest before disbanding.
Their paths, like yours, don’t take them very far.
The catbird practicing its repertoire,
the squirrel perched above you, reprimanding,
return you to the sense that, where you are—
though not a garden painted by Renoir—
the monarch’s ever on the verge of landing.
It’s not a path that takes you very far.
It only brings you back to where you are.
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