A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
Woodpeckers create a staccato pattern in a fallen log.
A forest protector? It's nice to know that children still play with toy soldiers.
Can you find the would-be predator here?
Over the next few days, snow is forecast for those distant hills. In the meantime, Patches and I will continue to bushwhack in search of interesting shots.