Henry Walters is a falconer and naturalist. He keeps Woody Guthrie’s Bound For Glory in one pocket and a razor in the other, with which he keeps up a meticulous, every-other-day shaving routine in public library lavatories. Henry’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in The American Guide, Hawk Migration Studies, Miracle Monocle, Tuesday: An Art Project, and other publications. He writes a biweekly blog about life in the woods for The Old Farmer’s Almanac.
Trying to wrap my mind around living on a tropical island for thirteen years and never once seeing the ocean, I stumbled through my Indonesian vocabulary to say, It’s good. It’s big.
A dinosaur dangles over my grandson at the Field Museum near a pink thumb that pops into the prom picture of my granddaughter dressed in strapless red leaving her house in Medina …
The bill in question is actually a 2,000 West African franc note, and it’s the equivalent of about four U.S. dollars. A helpful sum, really, but as I clutch the weathered crinkle in my sweaty palm, its value feels as dirty as the grime that is undoubtedly being transferred to my fingers.
to Egg and Berry brewery, to the pack / of Czechy words I made but didn’t work / in this pink town. I’d readily go back / to your best spots, the unfired gun, that perk //
And if the neap tides of my beauty / sadden him, I cannot help it: / I hang high, the waxy night light …
Three thousand ancestors ask how I straddle / the sea, a foot on either shore. //
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