I think of the way she bent over tide pools at night:
a woman stooped in the dark with her flashlight
as if she were stepping into the lit harness of her work.

I think of the way she lay under the stars
because they were medicine:

Tumors near the collarbone.
Pain in her spine. 
Radiation.  Krebiozen.
Arthritis.  Iritis. 
Sightless for weeks.
Listening as her friend read a draft out loud. 

Remembering the robin that fell dead from a branch. 

I think of the pages of notes about pesticides—

I moan inside—and I wake in the night and cry out silently for Maine---

And then, more notes about pesticides.

I think of the way the moon glazed the water
when she crossed out words and wrote other words.

I think of the way she knew that eels slid from brook to brook
and then to the sea.

I’m in luck,
because brown is cheapest, she said, 
when she bought a wig
to cover her bald head at the Senate.

I could never again
listen happily to a thrush song, she said, 
if I had not done
all I could.”

They called her spinster.
Alarmist. 
Communist. 

I think of the eagles who came back because of her.
I think of her open gaze.  Her resolve.
Her refusal to turn away from the wreck.