Passing beneath the bow of a ship at anchor in Lima
Saturday, July 25, 2015
My husband chopped down a hollow tree on our property a couple of years ago. I asked him to cut the trunk into sections so I could use them as planters in the garden.
At one time, I gave our resident bunnies sweet little names like Hush and Whisper. I have named their descendants Pillage, Plunder and Thug. Grrr. I wonder what Beatrix Potter would make of it.
Monday, July 20, 2015
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
I sit outside in the sudden dusk with a summer storm brewing overhead. It feels as though I am wrapped in a wet, woolen blanket, and breathing becomes a conscious act in the thick, squall-scented air. The neighbor’s porchlight blinks like a firefly between the trees. My camera and I are eavesdropping on the silent, electric communication between thunderheads. I record one fleeting thread of their furtive exchange:
In my ill-suited role as Il Paparazzo, I feel responsible for the short burst of temper that follows.