It’s Friday again. Normally, I say thank goodness it’s Friday, but I’m not really feeling that today because it’s the last day of my vacation week. I still have the weekend before I go back on Monday, but that’s not quite the same. I always have the weekend off. It’s the return to the routine on Monday that makes the end of vacation feel a little bittersweet.
It’s always hard to go back after a long vacation. I do love my job, but I’m not always thrilled with some of my coworkers (okay, “not always thrilled” might be an understatement, but I’m trying to be nice). I wish I looked forward to seeing and working with all of my colleagues, but that’s not always the case. I enjoy working with people outside the museum much more—though I will admit that our marketing team and catering department can both be a pain in my ass from time to time. To be fair, not everyone on the marketing team is unpleasant.
Anyway, I’m just “in a mood” this morning, as my mother would say. Fortunately, there’s still coffee, the weekend, and Isabella to keep me company. Maybe by Monday morning I’ll be feeling a little more charitable toward my coworkers… maybe.
I hope everyone has a wonderful and relaxing weekend!
There are certain sounds that immediately take me back to where I grew up in Alabama. I don’t mean music or voices or anything human-made. I mean the sounds of the natural world—the birds, the animals, and the nighttime chorus that filled the woods and riverbanks. For those of us who grew up in the South, these sounds are part of our memory in a way that never really leaves us.
My parents still live on a quiet cove along a river in Alabama. It’s the kind of place where wildlife is simply part of the landscape. You might not see everything that lives around you, but you certainly hear it. Southern nights have their own orchestra—owls hooting in the trees, frogs and insects humming in the darkness, and sometimes the distant bellow of an alligator rolling across the water.
One of the most unforgettable sounds is the call of the Great Horned Owl. It’s the classic owl sound—the deep “hoo-hoo” that carries through the woods at night. If you’ve ever heard it echo across water or through tall pines, you know how haunting it can be. They are large birds too. When you see one up close, standing upright on a branch, they can look enormous, almost prehistoric. My dad jokingly calls them “horny owls,” because of the tufts of feathers that stick up like horns from their heads.
If you answer their hoot with one of your own, sometimes they will fly closer to investigate. I have seen them land in nearby trees, curious about the stranger calling in their territory. It’s impressive, but also just unsettling enough to make you aware that you are not the only creature awake in the dark.
But the Great Horned Owl is not the only eerie sound of a Southern night. Screech owls live throughout the South, and their calls can be downright chilling. Despite the name, they often don’t screech at all. Instead, they make a trembling, haunting trill or a descending whinny that sounds almost ghostly in the darkness. When you’re lying awake in the woods and hear that sound drifting through the trees, it can raise the hair on the back of your neck.
Then there are the animals you rarely see but always hear. Alligators don’t usually come near my parents’ house, but farther down the river you can see them from a boat. Even when you can’t see them, you can sometimes hear them bellowing across the water at night. It’s a deep, vibrating sound that seems to roll through the darkness. If you’ve never heard it before, it can be a little unnerving. The South has a way of reminding you that nature is still very much alive around you.
Not all the sounds of the South are frightening. Some are simply part of the rhythm of the landscape.
One of my favorites is the whip-poor-will. People often hear its call exactly as its name suggests—“whip-poor-will.” When I was growing up, though, we had our own interpretation. To us it sounded like “Chip fell out of the white oak.” Once you hear it that way, it’s hard to hear anything else.
Then there is the bobwhite quail. Anyone who has spent time in southern fields knows that whistle. The male’s call really does sound like “Bob White!” It’s one of those bird calls that even people who don’t know birds can recognize immediately. The baby quail are especially adorable. You will sometimes see them walking along behind their mother in a neat little line, like a feathery parade moving through the grass. If they suddenly flush from a field, they burst up all at once, and for a moment they look like big brown bumblebees buzzing away across the field. They are surprisingly round birds when you see them take off like that.
Marshes and riverbanks bring another familiar voice: the red-winged blackbird. If you’ve ever camped near wetlands, you’ve probably heard its liquid, trilling call coming from the reeds. I first learned that sound while camping at Fort Pickens along the Gulf Coast, surrounded by marshes and coastal wildlife. Later I realized that the same birds show up far from the coast too. Occasionally I see them here in Vermont, which always feels like a little reminder of home.
Mockingbirds deserve a mention too. They are practically a symbol of Alabama, thanks to Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. The birds themselves are famous for their ability to imitate other sounds, including other birds and sometimes even mechanical noises. I remember living in Mississippi and having a mockingbird outside my window that had learned to imitate a neighbor’s car alarm. It would sit in the crepe myrtle tree and loudly repeat that alarm sound in the early morning hours.
They are also fiercely protective parents. If you get too close to a mockingbird nest, they will often dive bomb you repeatedly until you move away from their chicks.
My grandfather used to say there was nothing wrong with killing a mockingbird because “they’re a damned nuisance!” Whether you find them charming or annoying, there’s no denying that they add their own unique voice to the Southern soundscape.
And of course there are the sounds that belong to both North and South. Ducks and geese honking across the water are just as familiar in Vermont as they are in Alabama. Their voices carry over ponds and rivers in a way that feels universal, part of the shared language of wetlands everywhere.
It’s funny how these sounds stay with us. Years later, you can hear a single call—a whip-poor-will at dusk, a bobwhite in a field, or the distant hoot of an owl—and suddenly you are transported back to a different place and time.
For those of us who grew up in the South, the landscape had its own language. The woods spoke at night, the marshes sang during the day, and the river carried voices across the water.
And once you learn that language, you never really forget it.
What about you? What wildlife sounds immediately take you back to where you grew up? I’d love to hear what voices from nature still echo in your memories.
Isabella has her own favorite sound of nature—the robin. For some reason, robins fascinate her more than any other bird. When she sees one perched on the railing outside the window, she immediately runs over to watch it. Sometimes the two of them will simply stare at each other for several minutes, the robin calmly perched outside while Isabella crouches inside like a tiny black panther ready to pounce. Eventually the robin gets bored and flies away, which seems to irritate Isabella greatly, as if the hunt ended before it really began.
My love has hair Like midnight, But midnight fades to dawn. My love has eyes Like starlight, But starlight fades in morn. My love has a voice Like dew-fall, But dew-fall dies at a breath. My love has love Like life’s all, But life’s all fades in death.
There is something exquisitely fragile about this poem. It is brief. It is lyrical. It feels almost like a hush between night and morning. And yet, beneath its simplicity lies a quiet depth—especially for LGBTQ+ readers.
Nugent never specifies the gender of “my love.” In the 1920s, that ambiguity mattered. It was protective, yes—but it was also expansive. It allowed queer readers to recognize themselves in the poem without explanation or apology. The beloved exists purely as beloved.
About the Poem
Structurally, the poem is built on a pattern of comparison followed by inevitability:
Midnight → dawn
Starlight → morning
Dew-fall → breath
Life → death
Each image is beautiful. Each image is temporary.
Midnight is lush and enveloping—but it yields to daylight.
Starlight dazzles—but disappears at sunrise.
Dew glistens—but vanishes with warmth.
Life itself—however full—ends.
At first glance, the poem can feel almost mournful. Everything fades. Every beautiful thing is subject to time.
But the emotional power of the poem lies in tension. The speaker does not diminish the beloved because these things fade. Instead, he elevates them by comparing them to fleeting wonders. The beloved is aligned with the most luminous, delicate moments in nature—the kinds of beauty that feel almost sacred precisely because they cannot last.
The repetition of “My love has…” creates intimacy and insistence. The speaker lingers over physical attributes—hair, eyes, voice—before arriving at the final stanza: “My love has love / Like life’s all.” That line deepens the poem. The beloved is not merely beautiful; the beloved embodies love itself.
And yet, even that—“life’s all”—fades in death.
Rather than nihilism, the poem reads as an acknowledgment of impermanence. It recognizes that love exists within time, within bodies, within a world that changes. For queer readers—especially those who have known love constrained by secrecy, distance, or social pressure—the awareness of fragility can feel familiar. Love can feel luminous and precarious at the same time.
Nugent’s tone remains gentle throughout. There is no bitterness, no rage—only clear-eyed tenderness. The beauty of the beloved is described without ornamented excess. The poem trusts its images. Midnight. Starlight. Dew. Life. They are enough.
What makes this poem linger is its honesty about time. It does not promise permanence. It does not deny mortality. Instead, it suggests that beauty and love are made more intense by their fleeting nature.
Midnight matters because it ends. Starlight dazzles because it disappears. Dew captivates because it will not last.
So too with love.
In just twelve lines, Nugent captures something universal: to love is to embrace what is luminous and fragile at once. And in doing so, he leaves us with a quiet truth—the fact that something fades does not make it less beautiful. It makes it precious.
About the Poet
Bruce Nugent (1906–1987) was a writer, artist, and an important voice of the Harlem Renaissance. He moved in the same creative circles as Langston Hughes and other luminaries of the period, but what distinguishes Nugent is his openness about queer desire—something remarkably rare for the time.
His short story Smoke, Lilies and Jade is often cited as one of the earliest published works by an African American writer to portray same-sex attraction with directness. While many writers of the era coded or obscured queer themes, Nugent allowed them to surface with surprising clarity.
As a Black gay man in early 20th-century America, Nugent navigated multiple layers of marginalization. His work frequently blends vulnerability and boldness—soft imagery paired with radical presence. Simply writing love poetry that could be read as queer was an act of quiet defiance.
“My Love” may appear modest in scale, but its existence speaks volumes. It offers beauty without justification. It does not defend love; it simply names it.
There is nowhere I need to be today, nothing I have to do today, and nobody I need to see today. In fact, that’s true for the whole week. I’m on vacation.
No, I’m not going anywhere—unless you count going to Burlington today to do a little shopping. Our fiscal year comes to a close at the end of May, and I have vacation leave I need to use. I used to basically take off the entire month of May, but my current boss won’t allow that, so now I take time here and there to use it up. The only real travel I have planned is my trip to Montreal at the end of April, which I’m very much looking forward to.
This morning, when Isabella woke me up at 4 a.m., I got up and fed her, then went back to bed. Usually, I have to stay up once I’m awake, but it was -3 degrees outside, and crawling back under the covers felt like the wiser choice. I ended up sleeping until after 6 a.m., which is why this post is a little later than usual.
Today, I can leisurely drink my coffee, have some toast, and just do whatever I feel like doing. In an hour or so, I’ll shower and get dressed before heading up to Burlington for the day. It’s supposed to be a beautiful, sunny day. The high will only be 22 degrees, but it’s not supposed to be windy, and with the sun it should feel closer to 27. Practically balmy.
I have a few things I’m looking for, but mainly I’m on the hunt for a birthday present for a friend. She always gets me something thoughtful for my birthday and Christmas, and I never quite know what to get her in return. I used to love going into Ten Thousand Villages on Church Street—Burlington’s pedestrian-only marketplace—but they closed their physical stores and operate only online now. Still, there are a few quirky shops left to explore.
No alarms, no meetings, no deadlines—just coffee, sunshine, and a little Burlington wandering. That’s all, folks!
Thank goodness it’s Friday—and I’m working from home today. I’m off all next week for spring break and had some vacation time to use, so I’m really looking forward to a full week to relax and recharge.
Sorry this is posting a little later than usual. I got distracted this morning and almost forgot altogether, so I’m keeping this one short and sweet.
I’m so glad it’s Friday — and even more glad that I’m working from home today.
It’s not that this week has been terrible. The early part of it was a bit rough, but once I settled into a project and stayed busy, things evened out. Sometimes the best remedy for stress is simply having something meaningful to focus on.
That said, I have zero desire to go anywhere today. I woke up with a headache, which almost certainly means a storm is rolling in this evening. My migraines are usually more accurate than the local meteorologist when it comes to predicting the weather. If my head starts throbbing, you can safely assume precipitation is on the way.
Isabella has already been fed and is currently enjoying her very important post-breakfast nap. She takes that ritual very seriously. Since the house is quiet and I have the luxury of being home, I think I might follow her example and go back to sleep for a little while before officially starting my day.
Sometimes listening to your body is the most productive thing you can do.
I hope you all have a restful, peaceful weekend — whether you’re braving the storm or staying cozy inside.
It doesn’t happen often, but every now and then, the words just… stall. Maybe it’s a bit of stress at work. Maybe it’s mental clutter. Maybe it’s simply that there are seasons when nothing feels particularly profound or pressing enough to turn into a post. For someone who writes almost every day, that can feel unsettling.
Writer’s block has a way of whispering, you’ve run out of things to say. But I know that isn’t true. Life is still unfolding. Thoughts are still forming. They’re just quieter this week.
And maybe that’s okay.
Not every week has to be a carefully crafted reflection. Not every day needs a tidy moral or an eloquent conclusion. Sometimes we’re just tired. Sometimes we’re in between ideas. Sometimes we need to sit in the stillness and trust that creativity, like everything else, moves in cycles.
I suspect the words will come back soon. They always do.
In the meantime, I’ll leave you with something that never fails to bring a bit of peace into my life—a few Isabella Pics of the Week. It’s been a while since I’ve shared one, so here you go. 🐾
Sometimes, when the words won’t come, a quiet companion is more than enough.
There’s something quietly powerful about a shower. It’s such an ordinary part of our routine that we rarely stop to think about how much it does for us beyond simple cleanliness. But the truth is, a shower can invigorate, restore, and even heal in ways we sometimes take for granted.
If you’re like me and usually step under the water first thing in the morning, it becomes a ritual of renewal. The warmth, the sound, and the sensation of water hitting your skin have a way of waking the body more gently than any alarm clock. It’s a moment to start fresh, to clear away the last traces of sleep, and to steel yourself for the day ahead. On mornings when you feel sluggish or unfocused, a shower can be just the pick-me-up you need to get moving.
But showers do more than energize. They can be deeply healing, too. When you’re fighting off a cold or just feeling run down, the steam can open your breathing and make you feel like you’re cleansing from the inside out. After a workout, the water soothes tired muscles and helps your body begin to recover. Even when I have a migraine, standing under a steady stream can take the edge off the pain and ease the tension in my neck and shoulders. There’s a comfort in that simple act of letting the water run over you, as if it’s carrying away the strain.
And then there’s the end-of-day shower. That one feels different. It’s slower, calmer. It washes away the stress, the frustration, the lingering weight of whatever the day has thrown at you. By the time you step out, your body is relaxed, your mind is quieter, and sleep comes more easily. It’s restorative in the truest sense.
Of course, there’s one other thing a shower is famously good for. When your mind won’t stop wandering somewhere it probably shouldn’t, a brisk turn of the dial to cold has a way of bringing you right back to your senses. It’s amazing how quickly clarity can return when the water gets just a little bit icy.
A small word of advice, though: shower sex can sound hot—and sometimes it is—but it can also be risky. Water washes away lubrication, and many lubes aren’t suited for use in the shower, which can lead to discomfort or irritation. Add in slippery surfaces, tight spaces, and awkward footing, and it’s easy to lose your balance or end up with a fall instead of a good time. Sometimes it’s better to keep it simple—washing each other’s bodies and letting your hands roam can be hot and intimate enough all on its own.
Now, I’m off to take my shower. Have a great day, everyone!
Another work week begins—unless you’re in the U.S. and lucky enough to have Presidents’ Day off. I am not among the fortunate, so it’s business as usual for me. Wednesday will be the busy day this week, but unless something unexpected pops up, the rest should be fairly easygoing. I’ll take that.
The bigger story, though, is the weather. We’re supposed to climb above freezing nearly every day this week. Not enough to melt all the snow, but enough to make things sloppy. And since it’s February, this would officially mark the arrival of Vermont’s first Fake Spring.
For those unfamiliar, Vermont doesn’t really have four seasons. We have eleven:
Winter → Fake Spring → Second Winter (usually worse than the first) → Spring of Deception → Third Winter → Mud Season → Actual Spring (which lasts approximately 4–8 days) → Summer (gorgeous) → False Fall → Second Summer (also gorgeous) → Actual Fall.
Right now, we’re squarely in that hopeful, misleading stretch where the sun feels warmer, the air softens just a bit, and you start to believe we’ve turned a corner. We haven’t. Second Winter is lurking. It always is.
Still, I’ll enjoy the small mercies—slightly warmer afternoons, a bit more daylight, the sense that we’re inching toward something brighter, even if it’s two or three fake-outs away. Fake Spring may live up to its name, but I’m willing to be fooled for a few days.
I hope your week is steady and kind, wherever you are in your own seasonal cycle.
My tour yesterday seemed to go exceptionally well. I could feel the energy in the room, the attentiveness, the thoughtful questions. When the university’s social media featured the tour afterward, it felt like a quiet affirmation that the work we do matters. Moments like that make the preparation and effort worthwhile.
One thing I’ve learned about myself over the years is that I can usually immerse myself in something like a tour and push a migraine to the back of my mind. Adrenaline and focus carry me through. The problem is what happens afterward. When the event ends and things go back to normal, I tend to crash—and the migraine comes roaring back, worse than before. That’s exactly what happened yesterday. I ended up going home and going straight to bed, letting my body do what it needed to do.
Thankfully, I’m feeling better this morning and can take it easy while I work from home. I’m grateful for that flexibility.
And then there’s the calendar: today is Friday the 13th.
I’ve always had a touch of triskaidekaphobia—the irrational fear of the number 13. My paternal grandmother was wonderfully superstitious, and she passed more than a few of those notions down to me. Not black cats—Isabella would never allow that—but other things.
She was adamant that if you were walking with someone and the two of you came to a post, a tree, or any obstacle, you must not split and pass on opposite sides. If you did, you had to go back and pass on the same side, or something terrible might happen. If you killed a snake, it had to be draped over a fence to guarantee rain. And the strangest superstition of all: if you sneezed at the dinner table, you had to get up and walk to the door before you could sit back down—otherwise, a family member would die. More than once, I pushed my chair back, walked solemnly to the back door, touched it, and returned to my plate before I could resume eating.
Looking back, I smile. Those rituals were strange, yes—but they were also part of her world, her way of trying to exert a little order over an unpredictable life.
Interestingly, my mother and her mother both considered 13 to be lucky—after all, they were both born on the 13th. Maybe the number isn’t so ominous after all. Maybe it’s simply a reminder of the women who shaped me.
Hopefully, today will be entirely uneventful.
And since today is Friday, February 13th, that means tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I want to send my love out to everyone who reads this blog. I keep writing each day not only for myself, but also for you. Your quiet presence, your comments, your encouragement—they matter more than you know.
So wherever you are, and whatever tomorrow looks like for you, know that you are appreciated.
Joe
The Closet Professor 