Hi, it's Major. As I close my time as host of The Slowdown, I'm grateful for the opportunity

I've had to share poetry with you these past few years. The Slowdown has a deep store of

episodes, and for the next few months, we're reaching into the archive to bring you some of our

favorites. Here's one for my time on the show.

I'm Major Jackson, and this is the Slow Ham.

Thank you. The slowdown. This summer, walking the hilly road up to my home in Vermont, I watched a broad-wing hawk land on a dead tree trunk.

He was at eye level, only 20 feet away. He looked regal and never budged,

just eyed me as I gave a wide berth. I'm sure he was seeking rodents or voles of some kind.

I posed no threat, which he must have known. Earlier in the year, I happened upon a timber-doodle in the sky,

doing his courtship dance for a potential soulmate.

The widening circles, followed by a plunge to the ground, were terrifically moving.

The above, a recent logs entered in a bird book I've recently purchased.

I am attempting to keep a journal of sightings of the avian species during morning walks.

In my head, I am composing an imaginary essay, titled In In Defense of Birdwatching and Writing Poems

About Finches.

Lately, I've had conversations where talk of birds is the equivalent of talk of weather,

a signifier of what we avoid in our daily conversation and poems in lieu of more urgent and pressing topics.

Remarks critical of writing about birds, parallel disparaging comments of writings about gardens

and nature walks through state parks. The belief is that such writings are an indulgence in an age in which

it seems the world is going up in flames. That's one perspective. If only we viewed observations

of the natural world and meditations on birds, mammals, and plant life as equally critically urgent,

we might awaken to the necessity of caretaking our planet and each other.

...