Musings -- on the editor's mind

The Skagit River Poetry Festival was nigh, and so the volunteers came, fluttering in, silently, unsung, no trumpets, just a steady trudging from one venue to another. They planted signs of poetry, literally, and an occasional feather left in a room, randomly.

It was a different spring migration, this one biennially, with a flock of odd ducks, not in any birder’s book, attracting a different breed of tourists.

Poems started popping up, opening like mid-spring flowers, around town last Wednesday, as volunteers started digging into their tasks. They busily flitted from one building and chore to a...