Bryan's Blog

Won’t Write for Food

By Bryan on October 28, 2013. Two worthy dispatches from the writing life: In Saturday’s New York Times, Tim Kreider, in Slaves of the Internet, Unite!, lampoons editors and publishers who ask writers to work for nothing. What Kreider missed was that this…

The Crap Around Montpelier

Blogger’s Note: This post, first published on October 23, 2013, has been revised following the installation of some wonderful “poop stations” around Montpelier and adoption of a new Code of Conduct for dogs and people in Hubbard Park. Dear Montpelier…

Zombie Aspen Leaves

Yellow and brown and down to earth, they might appear dead. But they are not quite dead. They are the undead: zombie aspen leaves.

Hub Vogelmann (1928-2013)

Although the word conservation suits the laws of physics and the prevention of waste, its highest calling is in the preservation of nature. Conservation is now synonymous with the protection of life outdoors. Yet a protector is now gone. Legendary…

The Glow Over Montpelier

Hobblebush Burning

A full season of fall foliage erupts from the leaf of a single plant. Find your fireworks on Hobblebush.

Sunrise on Spruce Mountain

By Bryan on October 9, 2013  

A Poem About Death

On Dying Let me die of apple crisp. – Bryan Pfeiffer

Monhegan Report No. 7: The Fallout II

At daybreak Saturday, a gentle rain of warblers and kinglets fell on Monhegan Island. From the sea they came, most making their first migration south, blown off course and over the Atlantic, and then finding port on this tiny island to rest, feed and reorient. Another Monhegan fallout.

Monhegan Report No. 6: Halftime Update

Despite a regular flow of northerly winds, the 2013 fall migration on Monhegan Island is off a bit compared to what I’ve experienced over the past 16 years. The fallout on Monday amounted to a soft rain of Blackpoll Warblers and Yellow-rumped Warblers, with sprinkles of Cape May Warblers.

Monhegan Report No. 5: The Fallout

From the heavens at dawn came warblers to Monhegan. Even before the sunrise would make them glow, before they found the trees and insects, we heard the yellow-rump’s thin “seep!,” the blackpoll’s high “tzzeet!” and the palm’s rich “sink!” – the flight sounds of a fallout on Monhegan Island. In the dim light of dawn, we stepped outside to sip coffee and listen to our day of birds approaching.

Monhegan Report No. 4: Going North

Here on Monhegan Island, during supper with Jane Curtis, now about 92, we ventured no further than the frontiers of books and art and conversation about people on a tiny island.