The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
If no swan descends in a blinding glare of plumage, drumming the air with deafening wings, if the earth doesn’t tremble and rivers don’t tumble uphill, if my mother’s crystal vase doesn’t shatter and no extinct species are sighted anew and leaves of the city trees don’t applaud as you zing me to the moon,... Read more »
the only things I remember about New York City in the summer are the fire escapes and how the people go out on the fire escapes in the evening when the sun is setting on the other side of the buildings and some stretch out and sleep there while others sit quietly where it’s cool.... Read more »
The screened door slamming tells me it is summer. There are other sounds only in the summer, too. The hummingbirds moving from feeder to feeder on the porch, chickadee’s two-note song we hear early on summer mornings, ravens croaking back to their aeries on the ledges every summer evening. There are other birds too, visitors... Read more »
The text of this poem is not available online.
Hi, she says, leaning on the railing. What are you doing, homework? Well, sort of, I say. I’m waiting for my friend. I’m waiting for my heart, she says. (Me too, I think; my friend.) Out on a long walk? I ask. Well, she says, I have a girl friend, I’ve known her 50 years;... Read more »
I like black bears. They are relatively common around here, and they are usually not aggressive. Actually, they are generally affable, loners mostly, but not opposed to hanging out with humans now and then. In fact, I’ve found that in many ways they are a lot like us. My friend, Richard, an older male, drops... Read more »