no other colour in the rainbow, looks like this, unless, maybe it's all of them. he sees it all: black and white and greytones, but not too many. eight tones ansell said there were, enough to see everything that there was. now i see colours when i print my pictures, that he never saw in his. hope for the impossible; accept what you get, with thanks.
you can see it here, a pumphouse beside a swampy lake. a few years ago, it looked like this. a pumphouse decays into wet earth. time does not cause our decay; we need no cause; it happens anyway.` eventually the pumphouse will crumble, beside the lake, as will we in our own way, beside our own swampy lakes, at our own particular times and places. remember those angry dinosaurs! very few of them left, i'd say. the old pumphouse was there a few years (not long) ago. and tomorrow? I'll just have to look for new interesting things, to photograph and talk about.
saturn's rings are little things, torn apart by too much gravity perhaps. no levity would help, i fear. sometimes it is like that here. love and laughter sometimes coincide. and when they do, magic may happen. stuff like love and floral bouquets can be storied, stories unto themselves. we dare not ask; we do not really want to know. saturn's rings are little things, torn apart by too much gravity perhaps.
Red Deer River Valley here was an ocean an ancient shallow sea; great creatures navigated there before you and me. archaic things swam in sandy bottomed shallows sailors in ancient places, where we'll never go again. buried bones have turned to stone millions of years went sliding past it seems so long; it goes so fast. here are bones, when fleshed and live, swam by so long ago. we see them in museums, learning little.
sign of springtime growing wild on a hillside, always impressive, wild things in wild places. snow melt waters cool hillsides, and arrowleaf balsamroot. this year i'll miss the daisies. a time has come to go to distant places, to move along, and find other signs of spring, in other places. adventure seems to beckon; we will go.
her colour is incredible, the way she looks is fine. she walks just like a dream, you know, she's very very kind. she's very bright and great to know. her stories grow and grow and grow. her colour is incredible, the way she looks is fine. she walks just like a dream, you know, she's very very kind.
it's someplace exotic where i'd like to be again. winds bring us clouds then it starts to rain. green stuff is wonderful, so appealing, i don't know why. it seems a green voice calls seductively and i know that not too many steps, into the green, i'd disappear. smiling.
Blown Peony 2 it looks like this when the petals fall off. each day brings a new surprise. this morning i had to shovel snow. and shout hello to my neighbor. his new puppy came to visit. a puppy's full off play. fuzzy bundle of bounces. i made a friend. new friends are always so full of promise; you never know.
a little of this and a bit of that, all in a bouquet... colour can be so beautiful, she bends and sniffs a flower while i watch, pleased to have seen her. i could never have looked as wonderful or smelled so well the sweet perfume. i can imagine her as a child, delighting her parents, as she smelled the perfume of wild roses
into the unknown, we venture, each day. some things are discoveries, pleasing in every way flowers in tropical gardens, brighten memories, of a time before today's plague descended on us.. whatever disaster, things can be much better than we want to admit. our thirst for knowledge is like orange juice. we can only take so much after all. so there we sit, feeling a little bit foolish, with a two litre jug, barely touched.