Her Writing

And each time a speeding craft manned by an alcoholic on a rampage zoomed by, I thought of myself as Winslow Homer's "Man at Sea." Except I didn't have the same fearless look on my face that man had.

I celebrate wolves not only for their amazing beauty and superior intelligence in the animal world— including their familial and social devotion to the pack, but also for their wildness, for their belonging to the wilderness, for the fact that they can not be "tamed" to be a domestic pet.

We were twins in our depression fueled by genes and channeled into rage.

I bless these crisp curlicues of clams that greet me with their briny arms.

A sampling of Donna's columns written throughout the 70's and 80's

I was about 12 or 13 years old when I obsessed with wolf-like dogs in my dreams. I was a bad girl to my mother, she was a dearly hated persona to me at that time.

The owl sculpture was cut from cherry wood and sold to my husband and me by a sculptor named Giovanni from Venice Italy.

I was about 14 when I began to explore my blue-collar neighborhood on Newell Terrace, where Dickey Barrett my secret crush practiced his basketball hoops.

We were digging in the dirt, and it was gray, not dark and rich but thin and gray, dry and tightly packed, with a dull silver spoon from mommy’s kitchen draw.

I've come back from the Arctic of extinction to the sunshine of Yellowstone.

I could see the deer yard where a flock of pregnant does herd together to keep watch through the cold days and nights before spring.