Roy’s Place. September 12, 2012
Posted by littlebangtheory in Art and Nature, Love and Death.Tags: farm, farm trucks, Ford trucks, Goldthwaite, old house, old trucks, Roy, Shelburne MA
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Roy’s place is a bit gone by, as Roy lives up the road with his brother now.
Still, the old farm stands, mostly square and entirely proud.
On the south side of the house:
A weather vane doubles as a lightning rod, keeping the place from being blasted all to hell at the least storm:
In the shadows, a phalanx of Fords reflects the last of the afternoon’s light:
…as one of the old trucks bids the day’s sun adieu:
It’s a bitter-sweet sunset up in Shelburne.
Random Rain Shots. July 5, 2009
Posted by littlebangtheory in Art and Nature.Tags: Deerfield, farm, fog, horse, moss, moss berries, rain, Zoar Gap
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From this past week.
Zoar Gap on the Deerfield River:
A farm in fog:
A butterfly alight on hawkweed:
We’re depending on these guys and others for pollenatiion this year, as most of the blooming season has passed in the rain, which bees don’t much care for.
And sphagnum moss, loving the interminable wetness, puts out some cool little structures:
I thought these were berries or flowers or something, but recently I was told that moss has no such parts, it predating the development of sexual structures in plants.
All I can say is, they sure look like little berries to me, unwrapping from the terminal leaves of their respective stalks:
More research is called for, I guess!
Rising January 1, 2008
Posted by littlebangtheory in Art and Nature, poetry.Tags: farm, fog, forgiveness, the river
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A calm morning. The river rises up from its channel in a diaphanous fog, tendrils reaching skyward to coalesce in a cloud, a spectral apparition hovering over its corporal self. It expands across the flood plane, silently stalking the corn fields, enveloping the farms, rearranging the season’s dust and grit and pollen into lacy mud curtains on the barn windows.
The sun’s rays penetrate, excite, induce the river to ecstasy as it climbs the surrounding hills.
Higher, thinner, ever expanding like Kirk’s Apollo, arms outstretched, joining the Pantheon of clouds with one last cry of release,
“I’m coming, Athena!”
Too late, I drop a sprig of laurel into the river of life.