A little dazed perhaps (wow)

A little dazed perhaps…(right!)


Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

dunlin-bird-breakfast-light-beach


A dunlin searches for food as it’s golden brown reflection is portrayed in the golden light. Photograph by Mario Suarez Porras from Oviedo, Asturias, Spain. This was a NatGeo Top Shot in the Daily Dozen, Nov 10, 2015.  Source: Nationalgeographic.com (Thank you Carol)

 

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call: Breakfast!

kingfisher-reflection-

“Capturing the “perfect shot” is sometimes years in the making—just ask Scottish photographer Alan McFadyen. He devoted about 4,200 hours and 720,000 exposures in order to photograph a kingfisher making a precisely symmetrical dive into its reflection on a lake.”

See full story at My Modern Met

 

1/2 ounce and a beacon in the darkness

The NY Times has an average circulation exceeding 2,000,000 readers daily. And the story that ranked as “Most Popular” yesterday, amidst a deluge of daily news bleakness, was this one:

NY Times: Painted Bunting, a Rare Visitor to Brooklyn, Gives Birders Cause to Stare

painted-bunting-bird

“The object of fascination was a male painted bunting, an avian connoisseur of grassland never before seen in Brooklyn — and rarely found much north of Arkansas — that has drawn crowds of bird-watchers to Prospect Park since its discovery on Sunday.

“…for 30 breathtaking seconds, he put on a show, no binoculars necessary, flitting up into a bare serviceberry shrub, then darting right across the path to land in a patch of orange winterberries until a mockingbird swooped in and chased him off.  Scott Schulman, the manager of LeFrak Center, who happened to wander up the hill just in time, looked around in wonder.

“That was remarkable, to say the least,” he said. “Wow.”

painted-bunting-bird-2


Image Credits: #1 – Kirsten Luce.  #2: Daisylanepaul

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

owl-sleepy-yawn-nepal-cute-adorable


Source: wsj.com – Owls sit in a hollow nest in Patan, Nepal. (Narendra Shrestha)

Swan

swan

When I was very young, my Mother took me for walks in Humboldt Park, along the edge of the Prairie River. I have vague memories, like impressions on glass plates, of an old boathouse, a circular band shell, an arched stone bridge. The narrows of the river emptied into a wide lagoon and I saw upon its surface a singular miracle. A long curving neck rose from a dress of white plumage.

Swan, my mother said, sensing my excitement. It pattered the bright water, flapping its great wings, and lifted into the sky.

The word alone hardly attested to its magnificence nor conveyed the emotion it produced. The sight of it generated an urge I had no words for, a desire to speak of the swan, to say something of its whiteness, the explosive nature of its movement, and the slow beating of its wings.

The swan became one with the sky. I struggled to find words to describe my own sense of it. Swan, I repeated, not entirely satisfied, and I felt a twinge, a curious yearning, imperceptible to passersby, my mother, the trees, or the clouds.

~ Patti Smith, Just Kids


Photo: Swan by tatsuo yamaguchi (via Superbnature)

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call: Get up!

swam-catch


The swans on the River Alster in Hamburg, Germany were caught and moved to their ice-free winter quarters on the Eppendorf Muehlenteich millpond. They will remain there until spring. (Bodo Marks/wsj.com)

 

Not a single feather trembles

egret

Everything around it moves, as if just this one time and one time only, as if the message of Heraclitus has arrived here through some deep current, from the distance of an entire universe, in spite of all the senseless obstacles, because the water moves, it flows, it arrives, and cascades; now and then the silken breeze sways, the mountains quiver in the scourging heat, but this heat itself also moves, trembles, and vibrates in the land, as do the tall scattered grass-islands, the grass, blade by blade, in the riverbed; each individual shallow wave, as it falls, tumbles over the low weirs, and then, every inconceivable fleeting element of this subsiding wave, and all the individual glitterings of light flashing on the surface of this fleeting element, this surface suddenly emerging and just as quickly collapsing, with its drops of light dying down, scintillating, and then reeling in all directions, inexpressible in words; clouds are gathering; the restless, jarring blue sky high above; the sun is concentrated with horrific strength, yet still indescribable, extending onto the entire momentary creation, maddeningly brilliant, blindingly radiant.
[…]
There it is, in the middle of the Kamo, the water largely reaching up to its knees, hence the truly quite shallow weir, interspersed with small grassy enclaves, hence truly peculiar, if not the most bizarre river upon the globe, and the bird just stands, without a single movement, its body strained forward, waiting staggeringly long minutes for the day’s quarry, now already ten minutes, then a half-hour passes as well; in this waiting and attentiveness and motionlessness, time is cruelly long, and still it does not move, standing exactly the same, in exactly the same pose, not a single feather trembles, it stands, leaning forward, its beak bent at an acute angle over the mirror of the gurgling water; no one is looking, no one sees it, and if it’s not seen today then it is not seen for all eternity, the inexpressible beauty with which it stands shall remain concealed, the unique enchantment of its regal stillness shall remain unperceived: here with it, in the middle of the Kamo, in this motionlessness, in recognition that it is the one that gives meaning to everything around it, gives meaning to the spinning churning world of movement, to the dry parching heat, the vibrations, every whirling sound, scent, and picture, because it is a completely unique feature of this land, the unyielding artist of this landscape, who in its aesthetic of unparalleled motionlessness, as the fulfillment of unswerving artistic observation, rises once and for all above that to which it gives meaning, rises above it, above the frantic cavalcade of all the surrounding things, and introduces a kind of aimlessness — beautiful as well — above the local meaning permeating everything, as well as above that of its own actual activity, because what is the point of being beautiful, especially when it is just a white bird standing and waiting for something.

~ László Krasznahorkai, “Kamo-Hunter” from Seiobo There Below


Notes:

Lightly child, lightly

fly-wings-clouds-gaby-herbstein

[…]

And I have dreamed
of the morning coming in
like a bird through the window
not burdened by a thought.

the light a singing,
as I had hoped.

[…]

Wendell Berry, from “The Design of The House: Ideal and Hard Time” from New Collected Poems


[Read more…]

I do not know which to prefer

black-bird-raven

[…]
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendos,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
[…]

~ Wallace Stevens, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird


Image Source: livetalskare

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