Sunday, October 21, 2012



  1. Such a joyous photo. Vibrant colors against the misty blue-gray horizon. I flail my arms and strain upward to join the skein. Whither shall we fly?

    1. That would be a magnificent kind of freedom. Away, I think, just away - to the great mountain fortresses of rock and silent snow, to the place where my feet touch the ground and walk in the peace of home.

      Thank you for your comment, Hoosier Honyock.

  2. Ah, yes, of course. The hawkke returns to his aerie. Lovely, and a much more suitable migration for a hawk than the alien spring of a distant clime under yet the same sun. But I see now that I have, as I often do, forgotten the nature of things. The hawk, by its very nature, is wont to soar alone, splendid and distant in the bright gulf of air. But the way of my kind, bereft of wings, is to nod out the winter darkness under the earth, cradled in warm wombs of stone.