The Remains Of The May. May 29, 2011
Posted by littlebangtheory in Art and Nature.Tags: barn at sunset, Barton's Cove, Bernardston, Clarksburg, dandelions, Dentinum, harrowed fields, Natural Bridge, shale stream bed
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Before it goes, May has a few things to say, “captured,” as the kids say, along the way.
Delicate ferns cling to a shale wall over a stream in Bernardston:
Disoriented Dentinum adjust to life on a toppled log:
I like the almost-fractal nature of that little scene, with the little shelving fungi resurrecting their inverted progenitors by abandoning their past and seeking the light.
Hey, just a cosmic sentiment to go with a trippy photograph of mushrooms.
Here’s another shot of the Natural Bridge gorge in Clarksburg:
That one is interesting to me despite a lack of context; there’s no obvious scale, leaving it open to a viewer’s interpretation.
A couple more from the flatlands down below Northampton.
Puddles on Harrowed Ground:
…and dandelions, albeit gone by, at dusk:
Meanwhile, back up in the hills, a local farm settles in for the night, oblivious to the fire in the sky above it:
And, of course, a sunset/moonrise to end the day:
Barton’s Cove on the Connecticut river, from the Erving side.
Well that’s about it for May, though I won’t promise that something else from the files won’t pop up if it catches my fancy.
See Y’all in June.
Dent de Lion! June 6, 2010
Posted by littlebangtheory in Art and Nature, Love and Death, macro photos.Tags: Buckminster Fuller, Carl Sagan, constellations, dandelions, Edwin Hubble, god, Sticky hands (which ought to generate more than a few hits)
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Ah, the lowly dandelion, bane of the Chem-lawn crowd, delight of de little ones.
“Do you like butter? …Oh yes, you do like butter!!”
It’s so ubiquitous as to be nearly invisible to the average passer-by, to the extent that I have no photos of its fulsome blossoms from 2010. And as I chose not to spend all night looking for the photos which I know I do have, I’ll cut right to the chase: it’s the ghost of the dandelion which most captivates the child in us all, its gossamer globe glowing in whatever light encounters it:
…its stem popping crisply as it’s picked, bleeding sticky whiteness where your pinky meets your palm, and then, held up close to amazed eyes, a new universe unfolds with a complexity and clarity worthy of Edwin Hubble or Carl Sagan, presaging Buckminster Fuller by a million years:
If one needs proof that there is a God, one need look no farther.
And then, with a mighty puff from a child’s tiny lips, this earth-bound constellation explodes in a super-nova of delight, to be scattered on the wind, to begin again its miracle to the wide-eyed delight of some other child.
They’re going to come in waves throughout the summer, Dear Friends. And when they do, pull over, get a little bit sticky, and send them on their way.
