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My "Critters in Winter" series continues today with something more conventional (after an insect and an arachnid, equally improbable to find active at this time of year). American Robins nest and breed in the village; during May and June their wake-up calls begin around 3:30 to 4:00 a.m. Some years they linger quite late and get caught in the first winter storms. This surely must decrease their survival chances; migration is a hazardous time for them even when all goes well.
My own misgivings aside, robins and other migratory passerines have provided me with plenty of good photo ops in the late fall and first days of winter. In 2014 my neighbour, Adam, had a bumper crop of crabapples on his trees, and half a dozen species took full advantage. So did I. I especially liked the obvious colour co-ordination here, and the hoarfrost that coated all the branches and fruit.
Perhaps this fruit festival powered them southbound to their next stopping point, likely somewhere in Montana. I'll never know. But the robins keep returning each spring, so whatever they do seems to be working for them.
Photographed in Val Marie, Saskatchewan (Canada). Don't use this image on websites, blogs, or other media without explicit permission ©2014 James R. Page - all rights reserved.
“The road is a strange place. Shuffling along, I looked up and you were there walking across the grass toward my truck on an August day. In retrospect, it seems inevitable - it could not have been any other way-- a case of what I call the high probability of the improbable”
― Robert James Waller, The Bridges of Madison County
Pero la magia no se ha perdido del todo, afortunadamente. Basta con salir un momento, dejar atrás el ruido, y quedarse simplemente apoyado en la barandilla del muelle, mirando hacia el otro lado. Las luces de Üsküdar parpadean como si respiraran. Y entonces me envuelve. No sé si es el aire fresco que llega desde el agua o ese rumor constante del Bósforo, como un murmullo antiguo que se entiende más con el cuerpo que con la razón.
Mi imaginación se desborda. Me veo ahí, en la borda de ese ferry que avanza lentamente, dejando una estela dorada en el agua oscura. Va rumbo a Asia. Y no es una metáfora ni un juego de palabras: lo que estoy viendo es, literalmente, otro continente. Otro mundo. El Bósforo no es solo un estrecho, es una línea invisible que separa y une al mismo tiempo. En cualquier otro lugar sería frontera. Aquí, es una invitación.
A bordo, imagino los rostros, las conversaciones apagadas, los silencios. Quizá alguien bosteza mientras vuelve a casa tarde, después del trabajo. Quizá un turista observa el perfil de las mezquitas recortadas contra el cielo nocturno. Al fondo, la gran mezquita de Çamlıca se alza con una solemnidad casi irreal, y más allá, la aguja roja de la torre de telecomunicaciones parece un faro marcando un horizonte improbable.
Y, sin embargo, todo es real. Todo esto existe. Y yo estoy aquí, mirándolo. En Estambul uno nunca está del todo quieto, ni siquiera cuando guarda silencio. Porque la ciudad sigue moviéndose dentro de ti.
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But fortunately, the magic hasn’t been lost entirely. Sometimes, all it takes is to step outside, leave the noise behind, and lean for a moment against the railing of the pier, just looking across the water. The lights of Üsküdar flicker as if they’re breathing. And then it surrounds me. I don’t know if it’s the cool air drifting in from the water or the constant murmur of the Bosphorus, like an ancient whisper that’s understood more with the body than with the mind.
My imagination runs wild. I see myself there, leaning over the railing of that ferry as it slowly cuts through the darkness, leaving a golden trail on the surface of the sea. It’s heading toward Asia. And that’s not a metaphor, not a figure of speech—what I’m seeing is, quite literally, another continent. Another world. The Bosphorus isn’t just a strait, it’s an invisible line that both divides and connects. Anywhere else it might be a border. Here, it’s an invitation.
Onboard, I picture the faces, the quiet conversations, the silences. Maybe someone is yawning on their way home. Another traveler like me watches the silhouette of the mosques etched against the night sky. In the distance, the grand Çamlıca Mosque rises with a solemnity that feels almost unreal, and farther still, the red spire of the telecommunications tower glows like a beacon marking some improbable horizon.
And yet, it’s all real. All of it exists. And I am here, watching. In Istanbul, one is never truly still, not even in silence. Because the city keeps moving inside you.
(english follow)
Fogo Island, nord-est de Terre-Neuve, Canada ......
Le sentier accroché au flanc de la plus haute colline de l’île semblait ne conduire nulle part tellement il serpentait dans toutes les directions.
Mais parvenu au sommet, un seul coup d’oeil m’a suffi pour comprendre la nature de ce lieu : un monde rude dont le ciel, improbable, s’ouvrait sur l’infini et bien au-delà comme pour me rappeler ma petitesse; un monde dur qui mettait sans cesse à l’épreuve ses habitants, les forçant à faire preuve de résilience depuis l’arrivée des premiers colons français, puis britanniques et irlandais au milieu du 18e siècle.
L’histoire de Fogo Island n’est pas très différente de celle de centaines d’autres communautés de pêcheurs isolés. Mais au contact de ses habitants, j’ai ressenti un intense souffle de vie et de créativité indissociable d’un fort attachement à ce lieu hors du commun. Avec cette image, j’ai voulu leur rendre hommage.
p. s À ceux qui me demanderont d’où vient ce ciel immense, écrasant, aux couleurs du feu, je préciserai que l’Île a d’abord été nommée « Y del Fogo » (ce qui signifie l’Île de feu) par les pêcheurs portugais au 16e siècle....
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Fogo Island, North East Newfoundland, Canada
The trail clinging to the highest hill on the island seemed to lead nowhere, so it was meandering in all directions. But once reaching the top, a single glance was enough to understand the nature of this place: a harsh world whose sky, unlikely, was opening to infinity and beyond, as to remind me of my littleness; a harsh world that constantly put to the test its inhabitants, forcing them to prove resilience since the arrival of the first French colonists, then British and Irish in the mid XVIII century.
The story of Fogo Island is not different from the one of the hundreds of other isolated fishing communities; but in contact with its inhabitants, I felt an intense breath of life and creativity inseparable from a strong attachment to this extraordinary place. With this image, I would like to honor them. (Patrice)
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Original photo: Fogo Island (Fire Island in Portuguese) Newfoundland, Canada
Sunset. The last light of day. The time between the worlds as Carlos Castaneda once called it, before twilight and night itself - the time of dreams and imagination. While dream is part of sleep, there's always been something of a precursor to dreams in the imaginings that happen looking off into a distant sky as the sun sets. The improbable seems much more likely and it seems we're much more likely to IMAGINE such things at sunset than we are in the hard glaring light of midday.
Scientist Rupert Sheldrake and ethno-botanist Terence McKenna, in a famous trialogue with Ralph Abraham, once expressed the notion that the eternally creative power of the universe, from changes in states of energy and matter, to the infinite variations of bio-chemistry, is, in a sense, a form of cosmic imagination. Rather than being, as Newton suggested, a static, fixed machine that never varies it's rhythms, Sheldrake suggests that its constant permutation, growth and change can be seen as the universe imagining itself forward.
This image plays with the idea of imagining improbabilities. Rather than seeing a world being torn up, as some have suggested, might it not be fun to envision a world being re-imagined ?
Click on Image to Enlarge !
© Richard S Warner ( Visionheart ) - 2015. All Rights Reserved. This image is not for use in any form without explicit, express, written permission.
En el área geográfica donde está hecha la foto, un individuo de esta especie en agosto es improbable que sea adulto porque lo que vemos en esa época son el resultado de las puestas de final de invierno y primavera anterior.
La ausencia de casquete azul en la parte superior del ojo también nos lo indican.
Enseguida nos toca estar atentos a los adultos que se reactivarán.
Fotograma recortado un 8% y adaptado a formato panorámico
Cerca de Biar (Alicante) España)
In the geographical area where the photo is taken, an individual of this species in August is unlikely to be an adult because what we see at that time is the result of the end of winter and previous spring sunsets.
The absence of a blue cap in the upper part of the eye also indicates this.
Right away we have to be attentive to the adults who will be reactivated.
Frame cropped by 8% and adapted to wide format
Near Biar (Alicante) Spain)
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the trutht"
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Faith may be defined briefly as an illogical belief in the occurrence of the improbable.
H. L. Mencken
~ Christopher Reeve
This is for all my wonderful flickr friends who take the time to regularly comment on my posts. I know how much time goes into taking the time to look and personalise a comment so I just want you to know how much this means to me:-)
Mars 2016, l'A1A A1A 68081 est en charge d'un acheminement de matériel pour différents évènements. Sur la partie Mulhouse - Thionville elle était accompagné du BB 63406 qui a fait des manœuvres et du BB 67615 qui a fait une autre partie de l'acheminement un fois que le train a été scindé en deux.
Ensuite nous trouvons dans l'ordre :
- la voiture corail Masteris,
- une corail couchette Lunéa et la Club 32 de la Cellule du Matériel Radié qui sert de cuisine/réfectoire pour l'équipe qui accompagne le train,
- 2 fourgons MC76,
- 230 D 9,
- la voiture Service Audio-Visuel de la Cité du Train,
- BB 63013,
- Z 23156,
- BB 36,
- Voiture Mistral 69,
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- BB 66170,
- BB 9291,
- CC 65001,
- BB 20210,
- BB 9301,
- CC 72029
La première partie devait être présenté lors d'un évènement dont j'ai complètement oublié le but et la date...
L'autre partie à été exposé pendant plusieurs mois à l'ancien dépôt de Paris la Chapelle pour l'évènement Grand Train.
Une rencontre improbable au milieu des bois qui n'a pas échappé à mon regard. Je suis resté un long moment au bord du ruisseau savourant le calme de cet endroit. Une douce lumière se reflétait sur l'eau boisée. L'arbre et ses nombreuses branches tordues et couvertes de mousse se présentaient devant moi comme un don de la nature.
An improbable encounter in the middle of the woods which did not escape my notice. I stayed for a long time at the edge of the stream enjoying the calm of this place. A soft light reflected off the wooded water. The tree and its many twisted, moss-covered branches presented themselves before me as a gift of nature.
Another one of the memorable formations in the Crazy Hill area of the Valley of Fire. Crazy Hill is a very apt name for this region full of improbably vivid colors and complex shapes.
This tiny Garden Skink can be found everywhere, in improbable locations, like here, on Agapanthus leaves.
Ce petit Lezard de jardin peut se trouver partout, aux endroits les plus improbables, comme ici, sur des feuilles d'Agapanthe.