“Flowers don’t tell, they show.” - Stephanie Skeem.
Some images from this past Sunday’s nature trek. Devil’s Ridge received its name in 1863 during the Civil War. It’s said that few men would risk their lives to penetrate these bluffs and thickets during the war as a lot of rough characters would hide out here. About halfway, a little over two miles, you reach the highest point of the ridge. This is where butterflies will gather for an activity known as hilltopping in search of mates (applied to human social behavior – “cruising”). Seventy – five butterfly species it’s said can be found here during the summer months.
“Pictures can and do make a difference.” – Charles Moore
Should you have 27 minutes to spare and an interest in photojournalism, check out the link to Charles Moore’s story. If you’ve not seen it before it’s well worth the trip back to the sixties.
Later on today, see what difference makers Leanne Cole and Laura Macky have put together for everyone on Leanne’s blog. Thanks to L & L and all the contributors (including viewers) for another wonderful week of…
。。。 Monochrome Madness – Week XXI 。。。
I’d like to be a water-lily sleeping on the river,
Where solemn rushes whisper, and funny ripples quiver.
All day I’d watch the blue sky—all night I’d watch the black,
Floating in the soft waves, dreaming on my back,
And when I’d tired of dreaming, I’d call a passing fish,
“I want to find the sea!” I’d shout, “Come! You can grant my wish!”
He’d bite me from my moorings, and softly I would slip
To the center of the river like an ocean-going ship.
The waves would laugh upon me. The wind would blow me fast,
And oh, what shores and wonders would greet me as I passed!
Yes, if I were a water-lily, I’d sail to sea in state—
A green frog for my captain—and a dragon-fly for my mate!
“Water-Lily” poem by John Chipman Farrar
“Ideas cannot be limited to the confines of a silo.
They need space to run around and occasionally bump into strangers.” ― Steve Hardy
“Oh, there is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love—the first fluttering of its silken wings—the first rising sound and breath of that wind which is so soon to sweep through the soul, to purify or to destroy!” - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.