
out here in the forest
i confess to the trees
for my secrets are safe
with any of these;
but i don’t talk to those
who would tell all my sins–
like the babbling brooks
and the whispering winds
–photo by me

out here in the forest
i confess to the trees
for my secrets are safe
with any of these;
but i don’t talk to those
who would tell all my sins–
like the babbling brooks
and the whispering winds
–photo by me

There’s a two or three year old juvenile eagle in a tree ahead, giving me the eagle-eye. He’s almost as big as an adult, but he doesn’t have the bald (white) head yet, and his beak is only half yellow.
If I come any closer, he’ll fly away. It’s kinda funny, cuz if he wanted to, he could sink those six-inch talons into my neck and open my skull like a can of beans with his beak.
Eagles are sea birds. They love to have fish over for dinner, and will even transport them to their nests free of charge, but after the lakes freeze over, road-kill tops the menu.
juvenile eagles
always give me a craving
for fudge swirl ice cream
–photo by me

when sea and sky
are all i see,
a peace of mind
comes over me;
the view, somehow
assumes control–
it smooths my brow
and soothes my soul
–photo by me

from dust we were made
and to dust we shall return–
stay soggy, my friends
-photo by me

I was out for a morning drive when
A pick-up truck bumped my rear-end;
It was just Shep and Rover
Telling me to pull over–
I’d forgotten to feed them again.
–Photo by me

It may look like I’m taking this picture while standing in the middle of the river, but that’s because the riverbank of solid igneous rock (which takes up more than half of the shot) just happens to resemble the rushing waters.
I often see this in nature; one thing spills over into another. Perhaps Mother Nature is getting a little careless in her old age.
boundaries get blurred
whenever mother nature
paints outside the lines
–Photo by me

Slowly, the massive, battle-scarred buck
Steps out of the woods and into my range.
It’s rutting season now, and his neck is
Grossly swollen with the thick muscles
He’s acquired by rubbing and scraping
His antlers on everything he runs into.
This one is a real scrapper, for sure,
All jacked up on male testosterone
And ready to do battle if necessary.
I line up my sights and take aim.
He hears the click and bounds away,
But it’s already too late–
I got my Shot of the Day.
–Photo by me

rumbling and grumbling,
old iron ore trains
wind through the woods
with their aches and their pains;
huffing and puffing,
they still carry on,
stealing the show–
and then they are gone.
–photo by me

lakeshore in autumn–
a slice of heavenly pie
between lake and sky
–photo by me

in winter,
rocky point provides
a lesson
for us all:
though ice threatens on all sides,
her flag still stands tall
–photo by me