“Below birds crossing the lake of the skyand purple martins on power lines, downto the trees and one thing my brother saidthat stays with me from Long Island to Vermont,something about trees being conductorsof spirit ...”

“I stand above the tree level I am a tree I catch wind storm breaths My branches claw I drink sky It stretches me I don't care I catch jokes and luck from tall thin blue air”

“Hello," She said.There was a long silence."Hello," said Artemis again."Are you talking to me?" said the tree. It had a faint Australian accent."Yes," said Artemis. "I am Artemis." If the tree experienced any recognition, it didn't show it. "I'm the goddess of hunting and chastity," said Artemis.Another silence. The the tree said, "I'm Kate. I work in mergers and acquisitions for Goldman Sachs.""Do you know what happened to you, Kate?" said Artemis.The longest silence of all. Artemis was just about to repeat the question when the tree replied."I think I've turned into a tree," it said. "Yes," said Artemis. "You have.""Thank God for that," said the tree. "I thought I was going mad."Then the tree seemed to reconsider this. "Actually," it said, "I think I would rather be mad." Then, with hope in its voice: "Are you sure I haven't gone mad?""I'm sure," said Artemis. "You're a tree. A eucalyptus. Subgenus of mallee. Variegated leaves.""Oh," said the tree."Sorry," said Artemis."But with variegated leaves?""Yes," said Artemis. "Green and Yellow."The tree seemed pleased. "Oh well, there's that to be grateful for," it said.”

“Not long after our final lesson, on one of our Sundays at the lake, my father and I were walking along the shore when he noticed a small rock shaped like a bird. When he picked it up, I saw the quick gleam of satisfaction in his face and felt in an instant that I had less power to please him than a stone.”

“I have three younger siblings, and used to tell them an awful lot of lies when they were growing up. The best thing about being a writer is that now I can say that my lies were all in the name of literary creativity. Unfortunately, my brothers and sister don’t believe me.”

“Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report written on birds that he'd had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books about birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, "Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”

“one of the worst things about being a parent, for me, is the self-discovery, the being face to face with one's secret insanity and brokenness and rage.”