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Drifting Through Possibility:
An Interview with David Rothenberg

By John P. O’Grady

I realized that knowledge was not just about things you read in books—that is, ideas—but about the people who would bring these ideas.
 

Introduction

David Rothenberg is a poet, environmental philosopher, professor, and pioneer in interspecies music-making. He has published numerous books, the most recent of which is Secret Sounds of Ponds (Roof Books, 2024). As a composer and jazz clarinetist, Rothenberg has at least 40 albums out under his own name, including On the Cliffs of the Heart, named one of the top ten releases by Jazziz Magazine in 1995, and a record on ECM with Marilyn Crispell, One Dark Night I Left My Silent House.

David Rothenberg
David Rothenberg.
Photo courtesy New Jersey Institute of Technology.

I’ve known David for more than three decades, and worked with him on various projects, including editing the innovative environmental journal Terra Nova, which was published by MIT Press from 1995-1997. More importantly, we are hiking and mountain-climbing buddies, having ventured up more peaks than either of us can now remember. What better place, then, to have a conversation than on top of what Rothenberg describes as a “rattlesnake infested mountain”?

On a fine, late-summer morning in 2024, we set off for the summit of Brace Mountain in the southern Taconic Range, which serves as the border between the State of New York and New England. No rattlesnakes were in evidence that day, but the summit was busy with paragliders preparing to soar. David and I settled into the shade of some scrub-oaks to conduct this conversation. Periodically, our talk would cease in order to watch a paraglider launch into the still-wild sky above the valley of the Noster Kill.

Brace Mountain Trailhead sign.
Photo by John P. O’Grady.

Interview

John P. O’Grady: At the trailhead earlier today, we heard a couple of birds singing above us in the canopy of the northern hardwood forest.

David Rothenberg: Yes, we heard an eastern wood-pewee and a second bird I could tell was a vireo, but I wouldn’t have known it was a yellow-throated vireo without the Merlin Bird ID app on my phone. What was interesting was that they seemed to be dueting with each other. Interesting because the wood-pewee is so important to the study of bird song, thanks to Wallace Craig’s famous book, The Song of the Wood Pewee (1943). To hear such a bird dueting with a vireo was extraordinary. But you know, now we have these apps that find information for us. And I, for one, resisted such apps for years, because, as the artist Robert Irwin said, “seeing is forgetting the name of the thing one sees.” Likewise, you could say hearing is forgetting the name of the bird one hears. When I was younger, I didn’t want to know everything. I wanted to take in the song itself. But it turns out you can learn a lot by naming what you hear. Over and over again, I have been astonished by things I’ve discovered that I thought I knew but didn’t really, or I discovered something that the machine didn’t know. 

John P. O’Grady: Speaking of bird encounters, a few years ago you and I were on this same ridge, just a little north of here, with Chip Blake, and we heard something extraordinary.

David Rothenberg: Oh yes, our good friend Chip, legendary birder, former editor of Orion, and president emeritus of the Orion Society.

John P. O’Grady: It was in the spring—

David Rothenberg: Yes, it was during warbler time and I asked him, “What warbler would be really interesting to find up here, one that you’d like to see but probably won’t?” And he said, “Oh, the cerulean warbler. They come to this area but not quite up so high on the ridge. There are no records of one ever having been sighted here, as it’s on the edge of its range.” Then, as we were walking along, we heard one! Chip said: “Oh my god, is that really a cerulean? You’ve got to record it.” So I did, and later we uploaded it to xeno-canto, a great open access site of every possible bird song. They accepted it, but when Chip sent it to the Massachusetts Audubon Society, they said, “No, Mr. Blake, impossible! It’s just a regular black-throated blue warbler.” Or whatever sounds almost like a cerulean. They wouldn’t accept our observation. Oh, well, that just shows there are people out there deciding what it is you are experiencing. There are official ornithological institutions that determine what is here and what is there. They tell us what we hear and what we don’t, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Cerulean warbler
Could this cerulean warbler be the elusive songbird calling from Brace Mountain some years ago?
Photo by Ray Hennessy, courtesy Shutterstock.

John P. O’Grady: You and I might just as well name the birds for ourselves, in any way we please, right? Anybody could.

David Rothenberg: Well, birds are being renamed at present—by the authorities. The American Ornithological Society is revising all the names of birds that are named after people. Do you know why that is?

John P. O’Grady: I suspect it’s due to a legacy of racism.

David Rothenberg: Right. Just about every person who named a bird—from Audubon on down—has something in their background we now find dubious. Besides that, naming birds after people is not descriptive. Cerulean warbler is a good, descriptive name.

John P. O’Grady: Okay, let’s talk about you. The first of your books is a brief trail guide titled Walking with the Trees. I brought a copy with me.

David Rothenberg: I wrote it when I was 16. Very few people have a copy these days.

John P. O’Grady: This one is a discard from the Eugene Garden Club in Oregon.

David Rothenberg: Interesting that it found its way out there.
 

 
John P. O’Grady:
Books are travelers too. Tell us about this one.

David Rothenberg: I wrote it in 1978. It’s a hiking guide to Fairfield County, Connecticut, where I grew up. It consists of short descriptions of a dozen different trails, with little maps that I traced from USGS maps. The kind of thing a nerdy teenager would write. I made up a publishing company called Aspetuck River Press, and I came up with a poetic title, taken from some lines by Karle Wilson Baker: “Today I have grown taller / From walking with the trees.” I see so many things in this little book that are similar to what I’m doing now.

John P. O’Grady: Yes, you are still engaging the theme of getting people to see and hear what’s going on in the natural world. At the end of each of the book’s brief hike descriptions, you say to the reader something along the lines of: “You too can get out here, it’s not far away. You can be part of this!” At age 16 you were already encouraging your audience to expand their horizons.

David Rothenberg: Exactly. It’s totally the same.

John P. O’Grady: A couple months ago when we were plotting this interview, I asked you what question you wanted me to pose to you. And you wrote back, “What makes them dance?” Okay, now answer that question.

Bug Music, by David RothenbergDavid Rothenberg: It’s the title of one of the songs on my Bug Music album, which is about these little creatures—the insects—and how they kind of dance around. Yes, they dance around—but why? Why do bugs dance? Why do birds sing? This is the question that Arnie Naess says pushes you into philosophy: Why? It’s the same question that Werner Herzog had for his daughter Hanna when she came home from school: “And what did you learn today?” “Well,” she’d say, “we had a German class, some algebra, and history.” And then her father would ask, “Yes, but why?

John P. O’Grady: You went to Harvard for your undergraduate studies. Were you a philosophy major?

David Rothenberg: No, I never took a single philosophy class as an undergrad. At Harvard you were allowed to make up your own major, so I did. It was called Music and Communication, after a course that Ivan Tcherepnin used to teach. He was a composer who came from a long line of Russian-French composers, a kind of spiritual guy who was into Gurdjieff’s writings and René Daumal’s Mount Analogue. 

John P. O’Grady: Was it Tcherepnin who introduced you to René Daumal?

David Rothenberg: No, what put me onto René Daumal was the Whole Earth Catalog, one of my favorite books as a teenager. In it they talked about this incredible book, Mount Analogue. So I went to the Remarkable Bookshop, a Westport institution, and got a copy. I loved it. Occasionally then I’d meet people who heard of the book, and it felt like we were part of a secret cabal. During the first week or two at Harvard, I wrote a paper about Mount Analogue, and Ivan said, “Oh, so you are familiar with Mount Analogue.” He realized then that I was someone who should be watched closely.

John P. O’Grady: How did you go about designing your own course of study? That seems a rather bold move on the part of a first-year student.

David Rothenberg: At Harvard they had what were called course shopping weeks. I’d go to the bookstore—the Harvard Coop—and look at the books that professors were assigning in their classes. I’d go to a shelf, let’s say the History Department or the German Department, and I’d see these cool books and say: “What the hell is this class with these crazy books? I want to take it because the books are so cool!” Then I’d go to the class, and maybe it turned out to be some fourth year, highly specialized graduate seminar. The professor would look at me, a mere freshman, and ask: “Why do you want to take the class?” “Oh, the books looked so cool.” Okay, maybe they’d let me in, but later they’d give me a B- or a C when it became apparent that I had no idea what I was doing. Or they’d say, “You can’t come into this class. Come back when you’re in grad school.” And that’s how I would find courses. It didn’t matter what field it was. What mattered was, what they were reading and was it gonna be fun.

I started college in 1980. There were plenty of professors at that time who had become professors in the 1960s. Back then, it seemed like any crazy smart person with their own way of looking at the world could become a Harvard professor. You just had to talk your way in. In different fields, there were all these strange and appealing characters who were not so academic necessarily. Their classes didn’t always have organized syllabi and a clear progression through a body of thought or across a field of study. They were kind of drifting through the possibilities. I sought out these people, and they encouraged me to find my own course of study.

We had Arthur Loeb. He was a disciple of Buckminster Fuller. We had William Graham. He was a mountain climbing professor of religion. Brian Silver, who’s a kind of ethnomusicologist. And of course, Ivan Tcherepnin. My favorite book in high school was Magister Ludi [a.k.a., The Glass Bead Game] by Herman Hesse. It’s about these monks who just play this game that was based on all of human thought. The game was a kind of improvisation. It was so cool. That’s what I want to do with my life! And, you know, Ivan Tcherepnin got it. He understood that this is what you should do, this is what education was all about. He had great guests come to class, such as the composer Christian Wolff. He was one of the younger students of John Cage, and he was professor of classics at Dartmouth. He was writing this crazy experimental music, but he decided to become a classics professor because it was a job to pay the bills. He’s now over 90 years old and long since retired, but he travels the world performing his own music. The composer Tōru Takemitsu also came to Ivan’s class. And John Cage was around a few years later, doing the Norton lectures. I got to know him. All these interesting people came from all over. They would stop by, and we would learn from them. That’s when I realized that knowledge was not just about things you read in books—ideas—but about the people who would bring these ideas. You could meet them in person and talk to them.

David Rothenberg in field
David Rothenberg communicates with the insects and birds in a field in Slovenia.
Photo courtesy David Rothenberg.

John P. O’Grady: That’s a form of educational improvisation.

David Rothenberg: Yeah, I would say so. I improvised my way into avoiding the requirements of any particular discipline and ended up forging my own path, but I’m not sure I’d recommend it to others. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad for me to just study what one field, one discipline, tells you to study.

John P. O’Grady: Would you still be able to do that today, create your own major and find those strange and appealing characters, as you did in 1980?

David Rothenberg: Yes, there’s always interesting characters out there, only now it’s easier to find them by sitting in your room. You can just email them. You don’t need to go to college. One thing under siege right now is the value of these very expensive kinds of education. I think people have a good reason to be skeptical of the old model of higher education and the expense of it. Why bother with going to college when you can learn through so many other ways?

John P. O’Grady: How did you meet Arne Naess? 

David Rothenberg: After my freshman year, I drove across the country with my friend Ted Mandryk. We were into things like ecology and saving the Earth. At the time we were reading this book called Earth Wisdom by Dolores LaChapelle. She was a kind of a hippie mountain-climbing activist. The book was beautiful and full of ideas. In it she talks about this guy Arne Naess, a Norwegian philosopher and activist, who had chained himself to the rocks to prevent the damning of a waterfall. I thought, “This sounds cool, a philosopher using philosophy to stop destruction of nature. I could do that!” When I got back to Cambridge, I sent Naess a letter, telling him I wanted to learn more about his work. He sent me a pile of offprints of his articles, along with a little postcard that said, “Come to Norway. We will go climbing.” He provided three phone numbers: office, sister, and former wife. It seemed this guy didn’t have a phone, but he was on good terms with both his sister and his former wife. He figured I could track him down. The next year, I had this summer job writing for Let’s Go Europe, a travel guide for students and young people, written entirely by Harvard students. They paid very little, but we got to travel. I was covering Scandinavia, so I went to Norway and visited Arne Naess. That’s when I got the idea maybe I could come back sometime and study with him.

John P. O’Grady: After inventing your own major and graduating from Harvard, how did you find your way to doing a PhD in Philosophy at Boston University?

David Rothenberg: When I first proposed my own major, the Harvard administrators didn’t accept it. They said, “You’re too young to know what you’re doing.” A year later, I applied again. By then I was sort of skeptical about the whole thing, but they accepted it that time. In my senior year, I wrote this weird thesis, called Dreamers of a Common Language, a title borrowed from Adrienne Rich. Over the years, I’ve borrowed a lot of titles and things from other people, which is what you do in life. By the time I submitted the thesis, I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do next. No idea. I knew I cared a lot about saving the Earth, but it seemed like my aesthetic preoccupations were a little bit of a distraction from that, a little self-indulgent maybe. Why do all these crazy things? Already I was saying to myself, “No one cares, no one wants it.” I’ve always had this self-critical side, which can be very self-defeating, but I also know when to turn it off. I do turn it off sometimes.
 

 
John P. O’Grady:
What did you do after graduating from Harvard?

David Rothenberg: Coming up on graduation in 1984, I was trying to figure out what to do next. They had something like a Career Development Office, where you would go and see what employment opportunities there were. They also had these job fairs. Mostly it was consulting firms that would come to Harvard ready to hire any reasonably smart person who had studied in any field. You could always become a consultant. I didn’t want to do that, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. In fact, most of the jobs I considered were ones I could talk myself out of because I didn’t really believe in them. Back then there were no computers, so I was just poking through these big file cabinets crammed with information. But in one file cabinet I found a handwritten letter from this guy, Peter Bunyard. He worked at something called The Ecologist magazine in England. He had been to Harvard at some point, and he said, “We want some recent graduates to come work on our farm that is associated with The Ecologist.” So I went over to the Widener Library and saw that the magazine looked pretty cool, a funky environmental publication that seemed a bit like it came from another world because it was from England. Peter Bunyard was the managing editor. I wrote to him, saying I’d like to come work on the farm for a few months. He wrote back, “We’d be delighted to host you. You can live in my house.”

It turned out to be like an internship. They weren’t going to pay anything, but that was okay, because during my junior year I had won this prize of a few thousand dollars for an essay I wrote. It seemed like a lot of money at the time. The essay was based on a trip I had made to Nepal to study Tibetan music. I was interested in an instrument called the gyaling, which is like a loud oboe that you play in pairs. It’s very spiritual music. I wrote this 100-page paper about it, including detailed transcriptions of the music. No one had really studied it much before, which may be why the essay won the prize. So now I had some money and didn’t have to worry about getting a job. So I went to work on the farm, and my first assignment was to build a rabbit hutch. Okay, but I never built anything on a farm before. I was fairly impractical, yet I was out there with a hammer and nails, building this completely bogus rabbit hutch, the rabbits looking at me like, “You’ve got to be kidding!” Pretty soon my hosts recognized this wasn’t my forte, but they still sort of liked having me around, so they said, “Why don’t you work on the magazine? We have some projects for you.” So I did that for a few months.

While working for The Ecologist, I said I wanted to write something about deep ecology, go to Norway and write this article. They said yes, so I went to visit Arne Naess in Oslo and interviewed him and some other people, and wrote the article. I sort of made plans to return. When I finished working for The Ecologist, I came back to America and spent a spring in Cambridge, helping my friends start some computer company. It wasn’t a great time for me, as I was very depressed about some girl. But then I went off to Norway to the International Summer School at the University of Oslo, and everything got happy and nice. I stayed there for a year and a half or so, working with Arne Naess.

During that time, I was trying to figure out what to study in grad school. There were different possibilities: environmental studies, geography, poetry. I was really interested in the poetic discussions of nature. I loved A. R. Ammons. I thought maybe I should go study with him. And then there was philosophy. Where should I go? Americans weren’t really doing this nature philosophy stuff. In the end, I didn’t apply in poetry because I didn’t think I knew enough about it, even though I was writing more poetry then than now. I wound up applying to a bunch of graduate programs—in geography, environmental studies, and philosophy. Many of those philosophy programs rejected me. They said, if you want to study philosophy with us, go back to undergrad school in philosophy first. But I did get accepted at Boston University. The chair of the department was Robert S. Cohen, and he said, “Oh, Arne Naess! He was my hero in the 1950s. If you’re working with him, you can come to my department. I don’t care if you’ve never taken a philosophy class in your life.” So, I went there, and it turned out to be a pretty interesting place.

John P. O’Grady: Why didn’t you take any philosophy classes at Harvard?

David Rothenberg: I did check them out, but I felt the philosophers there were just telling bad jokes. Robert Nozick and Stanley Cavell, they were kind of funny, but it didn’t feel like they were going into the depths in a way I wanted to. I was pretty snobbish. I thought I knew everything. But I didn’t.
 

 
John P. O’Grady:
Well then, what does good philosophy do?

David Rothenberg: It asks questions, it delves deep into the uncertainties at the very heart of human existence. And the questions are better than the answers. The questions are important, and you have to ask the hard ones and go deep into them, without dismissing them. It’s not like, “Here, this is the answer. Next question.” No, the questions hold you for your whole life, they don’t go away. But that being said, I’m now more like a Jack Philosopher, like a Jack Mormon. Sure, I came out of this world of academic philosophy, this tradition, but I left it behind long ago. Nowadays I just tell stories.

John P. O’Grady: Ed Abbey had a master’s degree in philosophy. Do you feel any kinship there?

David Rothenberg: Not really. Abbey was a writer, a naturalistic writer. He told stories but didn’t pursue a career in philosophy. He didn’t play their game. I would say that I played the game a bit, enough to become a philosophy professor. I applied for 150 jobs over three years. That was before there were computers that made submitting applications really easy. Out of that depressing struggle, I got one interview and one job—a job which I have to this day. So, to those of you who are now in this situation of applying for academic jobs, don’t give up!

Secret Sounds of Ponds, by David RothenbergJohn P. O’Grady: In addition to, or despite, your having pursued an academic career—a highly distinguished career at that—you have become a renowned musician, an “interspecies musician,” as you describe it. You have played music with birds, whales, cicadas, and now insects that dwell at the bottom of ponds. This is highly experimental stuff, some might even say it’s way, way out there. Surely nobody would say your music is sentimental. Even so, have you ever brought anybody in your audience to tears with your music?

David Rothenberg: Oh, of course! A few years ago, I participated in the Moby Dick, Big Read project from the University of Plymouth. They recruited a whole bunch of readers, including people such as Tilda Swinton, David Cameron, and Stephen Fry, each one recording a chapter. I did Chapter 79, and it was one of the few that included music. After they put it online, the BBC contacted me and said, “Look, your chapter received some of the largest number of comments, comments for and against. Some people thought it was utterly embarrassing, a kind of jazz club version of Herman Melville. Others said it was the best thing they heard. So we’re inviting you to come to England and perform it live.” Okay, so I went there and performed it live. Several people came up afterwards and said that it moved them to tears—and these people were all men. No women said that. So these men came up and they admitted that they cried. Melville is what makes a man cry. People in my life have accused me, “You never cry, you never show any emotion.” But that’s just not true.

John P. O’Grady: It’s a well-known connection between music and emotion, but I wonder how that plays out along the experimental edges of art-making, where things can be more intellectual than emotional.

David Rothenberg: There’s intellectual music in all genres. I think there’s some experimental music that’s incredibly emotional, and there are other kinds that are based on idea rather than feeling, Some of that music you really can’t understand unless you study it—and that hasn’t appealed much to me. That’s why I liked jazz more than classical music. I mean, they all have emotion, but I am drawn to the kind of music in which uniqueness and uncertainty enter in. I love the spontaneity of musical performance where anything can happen, where you can do something, and you can’t explain it. Whereas with written music, it seems like you could eventually explain it, if you dig into it.

My first album was called Nobody Could Explain It. The title comes from words of magic written down by Knud Rasmussen as they were coming from a shaman named Nalungiaq. It is said that in the very earliest time, when both people and animals lived on Earth, a person could become an animal or an animal could become a human being. All you had to do was say it, invoke it. That’s the magic of language, of words. So if I were to explain it, the great thing about the shaman’s poem is that it presents this magic way of being in a world that we’re no longer part of. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could talk to the trees? We still can! We just have to realize it.

David Rothenberg plays clarinet
David Rothenberg plays clarinet.
Photo by John P. O’Grady.

John P. O’Grady: But one can play music with animals, right?

David Rothenberg: You can play music with them, yes, and the great thing about music as a form of communication is that nobody knows what it means. We haven’t got a clue as to how it works. Yet music has been important to human beings for as long as they’ve been around. It does something vital. We can’t say what it is—we don’t know—yet it matters. Music makes things happen. It takes us places that words cannot. Whenever I go out and do a live concert with natural sounds and in nature, it’s always a good thing. But inside a concert hall where there are just people, it’s not always good. Some concerts are bad. But if you’re out in nature and you bring some music, unexpected things are going to occur.

That’s what happened at a concert I recently did for a music festival in Sweden. We looked hard to find the right spot in this river where the best sound was going to be. We went there three days in a row. First day was okay, there were some sounds. Second day, nothing. On the third day—I didn’t have high hopes—the whole thing came incredibly alive. I never heard any sounds like this before. I have no idea why that was the case. We performed a whole concert full of these strange underwater sounds. I played the clarinet, and then the pond would go wild. It went on for 40 minutes. Afterwards, everyone felt like this was an amazing sonic experience, not what they expected. It meant something to them, but nobody could explain it.

John P. O’Grady: That’s like what happens when children are playing games. They decide to play street hockey or touch football or some game they just made up. They set bounds and have rules, then they just have at it. If you ask any of the players, “Why are you doing this, what does it mean?” They look at you like you’re crazy and say: “Because it’s fun.” Then they go back to playing the game.

David Rothenberg: Yes, one can talk about music as a game. Wittgenstein talked about language as a game. We know that’s part of it, but what does the game do for you? You’re done playing the game. It was fun. There was some exercise. Maybe you won, maybe you feel good about yourself. But in music, you feel touched. You feel moved by some of the sounds that you hear, and you often don’t know why.

John P. O’Grady: To bring our conversation here atop Brace Mountain to a close, I’d like to return to your experience as a teacher. As you described it, you were a precocious teenager, who didn’t hesitate to seek out the people whose work you found interesting and appealing. Now that you’re a well-established figure yourself across multiple modes of creative expression, have you ever been sought out by a young person who has been moved by your art?

Nightingales in Berlin, by David RothenbergDavid Rothenberg: Yes! Recently in France, I went to this town where there’s a famous jazz festival. I did an event in a bookstore, and the woman who ran the shop handed me a copy of my book Nightingales in Berlin (translated into French as Un Rossignol dans la ville) and said: “You have to sign this for Tiffany.” Who’s Tiffany? “Oh, she’s over there. She told me that 15 years ago, she wrote to you—she was 15 years old at the time—and you responded and sent her a few things. She couldn’t believe you wrote back.” I said, “She can come talk to me now.” And the woman said, “Oh, she’s very, very shy.” But I did talk to her. She made me a cup of tea, but didn’t say anything about having written to me that time. When I went and looked at my old emails, I saw it was true, I had written to this Tiffany a long time ago and sent her something, and answered her questions. Now 15 years later, she’s working in a bookstore in this French town and I appear. That kind of thing makes you feel like some people really are paying attention. So you could write a book, sell only five copies, but for one of those people, maybe, it truly means something.

John P. O’Grady: You never know. Teaching is like that too.

David Rothenberg: True. You don’t have to teach hundreds of people, you could teach just one person. I consider being a professor honest work. It’s a good job. We professors complain a lot, but our jobs aren’t that hard. We have a lot of time to pursue our own interests, and we should value that. And occasionally I meet a student who I feel like I could really help. I think, “It’s a good thing you found me. I’m one of the people who knows the kind of things that you might care most about.” So yeah, every once in a while, you find someone for whom you can really make a difference in their lives. I like that, and I think the same can happen with writing and music.

John P. O’Grady: Well, the last para-glider just took off into the sky. Maybe it’s time for us to head down.

David Rothenberg: As Patti Smith says in her song “Peradam,” quoting from Mount Analogue: “We will not speak of the mountain.” Or as Arne Naess wrote, “The summit is not worth more than any other place.” Indeed, it is time to descend.

Paragliders atop Mt. Brace.
Paragliders atop New York’s Brace Mountain.
Photo by John P. O’Grady.

Learn more about David Rothenberg on his website or view David’s many contributions in Terrain.org.

 

 

John P. O'GradyJohn “Sean” P. O’Grady lives in the Catskill Mountains in Upstate New York. He is the author of Certain Trees (2017), Grave Goods: Essays of a Peculiar Nature (2001), and Pilgrims to the Wild. Along with Lorraine Anderson and Scott Slovic, he co-edited the textbook anthology Literature and the Environment (2013, 1999).

Read essays by John P. O’Grady appearing in Terrain.org: “Letter to America”, “To the Gods Below”, “Certain Trees”, and “The Genius of Kaaterskill Falls”.

Header photo by Couleur, courtesy Pixabay.