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    Sunday, October 08, 2006

    Sunday Bird Blogging: Lakeside Memories

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    On this gray and drizzly Fall day in Albuquerque, Bosco the peach-faced lovebird (above) and Sunny the sun conure (below) told me they are basking in their memories of sunny days spent in the mountains of central Colorado last month. Here they are hanging out on the banks of a small mountain lake on the road to Cottonwood Pass.

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    Before we know it the dappled golden light of Autumn and the shimmering aspen leaves will be gone for another year and only memories will remain until the cycle repeats itself, trusty and enduring.

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    Dazzling...

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    (Click on photos for larger images.)

    October 8, 2006 at 11:51 AM in Bird Blogging | Permalink

    Comments

    Love the bird shots. Looks like they travel in style. I have some parakeets but its hard to travel with them.

    Posted by: Peace Now | Oct 9, 2006 9:16:43 AM

    Trees, by Joyce Kilmer:

    I think that I shall never see
    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.

    Posted by: Treehugger | Oct 9, 2006 4:11:35 PM

    Another:

    FREE-VERSE PANTOUM WITH GARBANZOS AND PARROT, by Nelson Miller

    Shimmering faint gold,
    emptied skins of garbanzos
    flung into a heap
    litter the white linoleum floor.

    Emptied skins of garbanzos
    parrot-peeled
    litter the white linoleum floor,
    rich thin surfaces tossed aside.

    Parrot-peeled
    as she searches for deeper truth,
    rich thin surfaces tossed aside,
    slippery beauty unregarded.

    As she searches for deeper truth,
    I walk in to learn how,
    slippery beauty unregarded;
    foot-flailing, I fall.

    I walk in to learn how;
    I'm a sort of truthseeker, too;
    foot-flailing, I fall,
    victim of truth's deceitful surfaces.

    I'm a sort of truthseeker, too,
    flung into a heap,
    victim of truth's deceitful surfaces,
    shimmering faint gold.

    Posted by: Treehugger AND Poetry Lover | Oct 9, 2006 4:18:17 PM

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