Joseph Bruchac

And yet, and yet I must admit I am not ready for my breath to leave the music of my heart that’s echoed by my fragile steps.

Joseph Bruchac, Blue River Fellow, 2013

Joseph Bruchac has been creating poetry, short stories, novels, anthologies and music for over 30 years.  His work is a reflection of his Abenaki Indian heritage and Native American traditions. He is the author of more than 120 books for children and adults. The best selling Keepers of the Earth: Native American Stories and Environmental Activities for Children and others of his “Keepers” series, with its remarkable integration of science and folklore, continue to receive critical acclaim and to be used in classrooms throughout the country.

Forest Log Work:


What’s wrong with me if I feel kinship with the humble grace of its bark-brown shape?   Extended across the litter of leaves compacted by careless human feet, insouciant to danger, it did not move, even as my heavy steps approached.   True, when I touch it,...

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The Change of Worlds

Andrews Forest, Oregon In Memory of Vi Hilbert, Lutshootseed Elder     No need to be afraid of death              D Seattle said, there is no loss                 A it’s no more than a change of worlds Em like the fallen fir that returns to moss. G  ...

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The Interpretive Trail

I have followed the trail that winds back on itself   ever climbing ever descending   like the uncoiling fern that opens as a hand does to grasp something new or let go of a secret.   It is a way like the deer’s. It is a path like the cougar’s. Twin...

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Creek Trail

I started to climb, counting my steps stepping over fallen Douglas fir branches pale striped as the birches of my own eastern slopes.   A hundred, five hundred steps, up and down a trail no wider than the span of two hands, the ground bouncing as the countless...

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All day yesterday and the day before, warm spring wind rippled through this fold between the mountains that holds the Andrews Forest buildings like small blocks of wood in a giant’s hand. That wind brought down a dry rain of small branches bearing wispy banners of...

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Among the Douglas Firs

Why is it that one tree dances while  another, mere feet away, stands still?   Is it something more than the vagaries of wind, the differing shapes of their branches?   Is it the way their spray of needles, like outstretched palms cup the breeze?   Or...

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