I’ve never really thought of myself as a nature person. Once I slept in a tent about 20 years ago, and I doubt that I’ll do it again any time soon, if given any choice in the matter. I enjoy reading Thoreau, but I wouldn’t want to be Thoreau. But if you think of writers as collectors of detail, which is one possible version, even I have to admit that nature does provide us with some pretty amazing ones.
By some quirk of fate, I find I have a number of good friends who are birders. [To further support my assertion that I am not a nature person, I will tell you that I never knew the word birder until guessing its meaning from context clues tossed to me by these friends.] The beauty of birds escapes me almost every time. From my office window at work or my study window at home, I could easily become a birder, but I decline. I may be permanently jinxed by the fact that my name is that of a bird, Robin.
Since I’m not a nature person, you would probably reason that I’m not a nature poet either. I would certainly concur on that. But in the spirit of "a time & a place for everything," I do find that I enjoy reading poets who tend to find their subject matter in the great outdoors. A. R. Ammons, Mary Oliver, I tend to read them comprehensively. After all, subject matter is simply a starting point, isn’t it?