Catherine Staples grew up in Massachusetts and it's there, in New England woods, meadows, and Cape Cod coasts, that the loss of her brother plays out as a quest across space and time: from a weathervane in Madison Square Park to a rusty pump in the mountains, from words etched on nineteenth-century glass to the track of skates on the Charles River. Place is at the heart of the transformation of loss. So, too, are myth and the lives of New England's early naturalists and Transcendentalists. Henry David Thoreau's narrative echoes and enlarges hers. He, too, lost a brother and found his way by tuning ear, eye, and stride to ""the living earth,"" a new way of seeing things. Vert is an old word in danger of being lost. ""In English forest law,"" it's ""everything that grows and forms a green leaf, serving as cover for deer."" It's suggestive of habitat, our imperiled earth, the small spinney of a brother's memory.