Bill Holm, a poet and essayist from across the river in Minnesota, died yesterday. Here's a poem of his, which I found written on the wall of a camp shelter on Isle Royale a few summers ago. I don't know much about poetry, but I like this.
"August in Waterton Alberta" - Bill Holm
Above me, wind does its best
to blow leaves off
the Aspen tree a month too soon.
No use wind. All you succeed
In doing is making music, the noise
of failure growing beautiful