Just a Picture. No words.
From FB Group David Attenborough for the Nobel Prize.
Posts
Squirrel
This little Guy just scurries Quiet this new day. The geese might honk The jays might scold. But squirrel just wants to play. He uses tree to Shield from me. I mean him nothing harm. His scratching sound As he climbs round. The only real alarm.
Simple Country Road. Glories Painted.
Thank you Patricia Dowler, a FB friend. Pebbles crackle Underfoot Wanted the silence Of this hike. Car left behind. Camera slung And at the ready. Sun getting ready To show off. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Shoot it, now Read Psalm 104.
Yeah, Step Backwards, Wilderness One.
Just step away That’s it A little bit more Backwards, Boy. Many zipped before. Only a couple Were maimed...really. And that because Of clumsiness In the fears. The what-ifs That paralyze. Six inches more. Forget about looking. WHEEE. ( Playing in lush Costa Rica, Scott and Zoe)
Janet
Taken so very young But those setting suns Saw many, gazing Bay-ward. Northern white-throats She heard. And loons, unmistakable. Best of First Nation music. Pre-history Bird. And diver, great swim Popping up. Yes, Janet enjoyed Full Cup. Bequeathing The North and health To many kids Her kind of wealth. Smilingly.
Lodge of the Beaver
One day, watched just the gnarling A trunk ten inches crosst. Could hear persistent grinding I behind bushes lost. The meeting was first by happenstance A hike by the Lake the cause.* I heard the tail whack. He, swimming, looked back. And now had been many a pause. The industry overwhelming. The weather, not any concern. And I went to school With chisel and rule The craft of this woodsman to learn. The kits would come after the shaping The mud shell and access submerged. His wife knew the time For birthing sublime. And for quicker progress she urged. (The locale was Fairy Lake at the north end of Beausoleil Island, Georgian Bay ON, London Y Camp CQE)
For Real Are They?
A dear friend online in a Writers’ Poetry Forum once did a piece about dreaming that he found purple roses for his Beloved. Anthony Gomez had some beautiful ideas. And also tough, provocative ones. His partner Jody Squallace was equally artistic and talented. Good friends even from a distance (South Carolina). How he could let the rivers flow. Joyful always notwithstanding. https://issuu.com/blairdoug64/docs/take_to_writing Not to gripe; but to give thanks always.
High, Heady Places (wandering Wyoming)
I remember having read a book in college days written from the point of view of a young fisher (breed of weasel) who lived in Grand Teton Park. I think that the title was The Winter of the Fisher. Imagination was thrilled by sights and climate and critters of Wyoming . c. 1975 Synopsis by Amazon Books: The fisher, a magnificent fur-bearer larger than the marten, inhabits the forests of North America. Seldom glimpsed, he is solitary and nocturnal. This novel, tells of one year in the fisher's life, from the spring of his infancy to the next spring, when his first mating occurs. It is the story of struggle and survival as he establishes his territory, battles with fellow predators, and faces the harsh months of winter. It is also a story of the lessons he learns from the most dangerous predator of all - man. Along with the fisher's world, there are vignettes of the animals who share his terrain, and the mingling of their stories forms a tapestry of the interdependen...
Northern Night
The lake is calm, Without a breeze. Bedecked with stars, Above the trees. And Ursa Minor Points the way. While moonbeams On the ripples play. And standing on The dock, I hear, Kathunk, kathunk, As boat bunts pier. Some plashing faintly Down the shore. A creature lands To rest once more. The birches rustle Just behind. A single puff Of cooling wind. And peeper frogs, With chorus sweet, Perform where grass And lilies meet. Then basso bull, In search of love, With thunderous throat His troth to prove. Mosquitoes skim The fluid face; And waterbugs Their etchings trace. But then a hush, A freeze, a pause; Some recess called By Nature’s laws. And dimly, faintly, He is heard. The eerie voice Of diving bird. A plaintive low, And yodel sighs. Raised far out there To Northern Skies. Primordial scene, And timeless tune. The concert of The Common Loon. by Robert Bateman
