I've walked with Henry David Thoreau for the last thirty years. It seems odd because Henry died in 1862, eighty years before I was born. The other problem is this: it's unlikely he would choose me for company. I talk too much. Henry enjoyed his solitude. He found only a couple of friends he could tolerate on long walks. This little book assumes our friendship was possible. I have much in common with Henry. And so sauntering through his books and journals I feel I know him. Reading HDT is not for everyone. One has to plow through much in order to find the nuggets that lie in the furrows. It's like hunting for arrowheads. You don't usually find them on the surface. These poems represent my conversation with HDT. I can't imagine talking in detail about his writing. He wouldn't have tolerated my chattering on. Rather, the poems are my response or reflections from Walden Pond. I sit by the water and drink Henry's thoughts. Some days the water seems bland, on others, sweet and refreshing.