On the Richard Record

  Dear Red Knot,             I hope this letter finds you well, though, from what I hear, you probably aren’t. You may not be aware, but you are struggling. Along with many of your counterparts, you are categorized as vulnerable or declining in almost every measurable metric imaginable to our intelligence. You are suffering so much that we—who are very well likely completely responsible for pushing you toward your demise—are beginning to realize your tribulations. I have been fortunate enough to work with a select few that have walked among you, observing you in person and in my distant non-coastal town. Those of you who I have seen in person, thank you for allowing me passage into your world. You’ve given me purpose. I can say I know many Reds and Knots, but only one Red Knot.             Unfortunately, those that are more tenuously tied to your life have been careless...

  There's a place... Where earthquakes have  quaked life into trees, and trees into life. Where waterfowl and their webbed feet wing over water engineered by hard-hatted beavers. Where moose mangle willows and  flee drawn bows and deathful bears. Where wolves collect constellations  by howling skyward, eyes agazed amongst Aurora. Where pilots fly over switchback sloughs and gallons of glittering grey glacial water.  Where airboats align along Aliganik,  waiting to rotate their blades that banter beyond oblivion.  Where fishermen feel the pull of a thousand salmon,  thrusting with whatever strength they can muster.  Where interns are influenced by the incandescent illuminations  that glow from inside the comfort of the Gazelle. Where rain rests rarely and  winds whip winter against wistful life.  Where vacuuming vegetation  hides secretive mothers with their young. Where tides are ticking time bombs, predictable but never t...