View allAll Photos Tagged Rustles
""A cold wind was blowing from the north; and it made the trees rustle like living things "" George R.R. Martin
I feel the sun, warm upon my face
I feel a breeze that flows through my hair and rustles the trees
I feel the moisture clinging misty upon the ground
Do they feel me??
I have taken so many pictures in this spot and yet no two are the same. This time they were like cats stretching towards the sun.
When you're in nature, the leaves rustle gently in the wind and you hear birds sing all around. Surely that is bliss.
A chestnut tree basked in the warm glow of the sun, its branches reaching out to embrace the light. The leaves rustled gently in the breeze, and the trunk was sturdy and strong. The sun was high in the sky, casting dappled light through the leaves of the tree. It was a peaceful scene, with the chestnut tree providing a haven of shade from the warm sun. The sun lit up the tree, bringing out its rich, warm colors and casting long shadows on the ground below. It was a beautiful sight, and one could imagine spending hours lounging in the shade of this magnificent tree, basking in the warmth of the sun.
Sun on a chestnut tree in Linzgau
Nella luce del tramonto si sente sovente, un frusciare ai margini del bosco. Sono i suoi abitanti che poi, con un pò di pazienza si vedono uscir fuori.
At the edge of the forest
In the light of the sunset you can hear a rustle at the edge of the wood and with a little patience, its inhabitants come out.
All rights reserved © Nick Outdoor Photography
Morning comes slowly to Semangar.
The first light doesn’t shout—it whispers. It glides over the hills, brushing the treetops, pulling soft curtains of mist across the fields. In this quiet place, time feels older, slower, as if the world remembers how to breathe.
Years ago, these fields were filled with the sounds of bare feet on dew-soaked grass, the rustle of coconut palms, and the hum of morning life. Children laughed here. Elders sat beneath the trees, trading stories for silence.
Nothing grand happened. And that’s the beauty of it.
These were the mornings that shaped us—not through drama, but through stillness.
A place where the land taught us to listen.
Even now, as the light melts into golden haze, the memory lingers.
It’s in the way the hills hold their shape like old guardians.
It’s in the silence that speaks more than words.
This is not just a landscape.
This is a chapter—a soft one, worn by time but never forgotten.
Beneath the golden haze, peace is not just felt—it is remembered.
A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.
So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”
― Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte
Yannis Martynov Edit
See his work here:
www.flickr.com/photos/yannismartynov/
www.flickr.com/photos/yannis_martynov/
Skull Creek:
As the leaves rustle,
colors mingle and soon fade
-- a dance to the end.
In Georgia, Winter is a time where some leaves bear many colors while others have faded away. Something about them invites me to play. Shooting into the morning light on a new day through multiple exposure. Wishing everyone a great day ahead!
the day begins in visions of pink and velvety white, beneath the towering pines...
Quiet to the point every noise is magnified-the bird songs, the rustle in the leaves...
One wants to whisper, softly...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeJ9Md-Rtrc
Willie was a man without fame
Hardly anybody knew his name.
Crippled and limping, always walking lame,
He said, “I keep on movin’
Movin’ just the same.”
Solitude was the climate in his head
Emptiness was the partner in his bed,
Pain echoed in the steps of his tread,
He said, “I keep on followin’
Where the leaders led.”
I may cry and I will die,
But my spirit is the soul of every spring,
Watch for me and you will see
That I’m present in the songs that children sing.”
People called him “Uncle,” “Boy” and “Hey,”
Said, “You can’t live through this another day.”
Then, they waited to hear what he would say.
He said, “I’m living
In the games that children play.
“You may enter my sleep, people my dreams,
Threaten my early morning’s ease,
But I keep comin’ followin’ laughin’ cryin’,
Sure as a summer breeze.
Wait for me, watch for me.
My spirit is the surge of open seas.
Look for me, ask for me,
I’m the rustle in the autumn leaves.
“When the sun rises
I am the time.
When the children sing
I am the Rhyme.
Poem : Maya Angelou
I am sure this is something that happens to other people, not just me. You see something and immediately a song pops up in your mind. I was wandering in the streets of Chora in Serifos and as I took a turn and walked in this alley I felt a strong wind gust from behind. The closed windows of the 2 houses started creaking and I instantly remembered the lyrics of this Greek old song where the singer says that he feels like the wind passing through the city's streets making the closed windows creak . It was so quiet and so peaceful on that mid September evening in Chora. Its streets were empty and the sound of the windows didn't bother me at all. I stayed there to enjoy that moment and absorb everything through my eyes and ears. White walls, colorful windows, the sound of creaking and a nice and refreshing breeze. Perfection. Happy Window Wednesday everybody.
Αύρα εσπερινή - Δημήτρης Παναγόπουλος
www.youtube.com/watch?v=prXZENGUzZY
And here are the lyrics in English:
As I walk out of your door
I will see the round sun
wearing your beautiful last smile
I will wish you good morning
then I will leave, I will be lost
and maybe you will only see me again in your dreams
Because I am the air that passes
in the city's alleys
and makes the closed windows creak
Because I am an evening aura
I am a breath clean and alive
which makes the tilted window shutters rustle
I am leaving to go high on the mountain
and then I will fall off the cliff
as I sway in the depths and the heights
And in silence I carry
an unruly cry
and some unspeakable hope that you have hidden
孟浩然ー春暁
春眠不覺曉
處處聞啼鳥
夜来風雨聲
花落知多少
Dawn in Spring by Meng Hao Ran
Indulged in sweet and drowsy spring dawn,
I enjoy hearing early birds hither and yon,
Since last night rainy wind has rustled hard.
Flowers may have fallen to ornate the yard.
孟浩然より”春暁”
春眠暁を覚えず 処処啼鳥を聞く
夜来風雨の声 花落つること知りぬ多少ぞ
Caithlin posing for her favourite human, Lene.
Dushara Cathal Caithlin (Somali), 16.12.2016.
Olympus OMD EM5 Digital Camera. Photo by Lene Raarup.
“When angels visit us, we do not hear the rustle of wings, nor feel the feathery touch of the breast of a dove; but we know their presence by the love they create in our hearts.”
― Mary Baker Eddy
For Smile on Saturday
traveladventureeverywhere.blogspot.com/2018/12/moscow-rus...
Sing to me, Autumn, with the rustle of your leaves.
Breathe on me your spicy scents that flow within your breeze.
Dance with me, Autumn, your waltz that bends the boughs of trees.
Now tell me all the secrets you've whispered to the seas.
Sleep with me, Autumn, beneath your starlit skies.
Let your yellow harvest moon shimmer in our eyes.
Kiss me, Autumn, with your enchanting spellbound ways
That changes all you touch into crimson golden days.
Love me, Autumn, and behold this love so true
That I'll be waiting faithfully each year to be with you.
Patricia L. Cisco
...
It is getting dark;
a late cry of a bird
breaks through the lonely rest;
only now and then
the wind rustles in the branches -
otherwise peaceful silence,
the restlessness of the day is over.
...
to be continued
Poem by: Leana Payne
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♥Stay dark and safe all♥
STADT DER TÜRME
„Mittelalterliches Manhattan“
Ein wenig bedrohlich und dunkel, ja so wirken die Türme nach Sonnenuntergang aus der Ferne .... von unserem Campingplatz aus
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Bedrohlich und dunkel steht der Turm in der späten Abendsonne auf dem Hügel. Krähen kreischen und die Blätter rauschen im Wind, als würden sie etwas Unheilvolles vorhersagen. Der junge Mann steht am Fusse des kleinen Berges und schaut mit durchdringendem Blick hinauf. Er hat keine Angst. Noch nicht. Stattdessen spürt er, wie das Adrenalin durch seine Adern strömt, sein Herz pocht wild und seine Füsse würden am liebsten gleich die Anhöhe emporspringen, doch er muss warten. Die Zeit ist noch nicht soweit. Sie ist noch nicht soweit.
aus Gedanken über Türme… verfasser unbekannt
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Turmbauten gehören zur Menschheitageschichte dazu, wie ich gelesen. Damals im Mittelalter baute man sich in den italienischen Städten nicht einfach ein Wohnhaus. Wer einen Namen hatte und es sich finanziell leisten konnte, baute sein Wohnhaus mit einen Turm. Damit wurde vor anderen deutlich, schaut her, ich habe es geschafft, wir sind wer! Die Stadt San Gimignano in der Toskana ist ein Beispiel dafür, denn einige der Türme stehen noch heute.
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CITY OF TOWERS
"Medieval Manhattan"
A little threatening and dark, yes that's how the towers look from a distance after sunset ... from our camping site
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Threatening and dark, the tower stands on the hill in the late evening sun. Crows screech and the leaves rustle in the wind as if predicting something disastrous. The young man stands at the foot of the small mountain and looks up with a penetrating look. He is not afraid. Not yet. Instead, he feels the adrenaline rushing through his veins, his heart is pounding wildly and his feet would love to jump straight up the hill, but he must wait. The time is not ready yet. It is not yet ready.
from thoughts of towers... author unknown
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Tower buildings belong to the history of mankind, as I read. Back in the Middle Ages, people in Italian cities did not simply build a house. Those who had a name and could afford it financially built their house with a tower. This made it clear in front of others, look here, I have done it, we are who! The city of San Gimignano in Tuscany is an example of this, because some of the towers are still standing today.
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)
Пионы — это розы без шипов:
Как ангелы красы — без пышных крыльев;
Или признанья взглядами, без слов,
Как сказка, что однажды стала былью.
И, вроде бы, обычные цветы…
Из арсенала матушки Природы,
Но сколько в них волшебной красоты,
А в шлейфе аромата — дивных ноток!..
Бессмертные посланники любви,
Вне Времени и всяческих канонов…
Особенно любимые цветы
Великолепные, шикарные пионы. ....Люблю пионы. За безалаберную пышность, за расточительный аромат. И за то, что, не унижая себя медленным увяданием, умирают в одну ночь, разом сбросив с глухим шорохом все свои почти живые лепестки. ....Кто ты? Реальность или сон?
Коснусь тебя рукою — пусто.
А рядом — сорванный пион-
Венец вселенского искусства....................................Peonies are roses without thorns:
Like angels of beauty — without magnificent wings;
Or confessions with looks, without words,
Like a fairy tale that once became a reality.
And, it seems, ordinary flowers…
From the arsenal of Mother Nature,
But how much magical beauty there is in them,
And in the trail of fragrance — wonderful notes!..
Immortal Messengers of Love,
Beyond Time and all kinds of canons…
Especially favorite flowers
Gorgeous, gorgeous peonies.....I love peonies. For the careless pomp, for the wasteful fragrance. And for the fact that, without humiliating themselves by slow withering, they die in one night, dropping all their almost living petals at once with a dull rustle.....Who are you? Reality or dream?
If I touch you with my hand, it's empty.
And next to it is a plucked peony -
the Crown of universal art.
„Die Nüsse 🌰 sind doch sicher alle für mich“. Ich stand unter dem Baum und raschelte mit der Tüte…
"The nuts 🌰 are surely all for me". I stood under the tree and rustled the bag...
A breezy balmy fall day in the woods. A breeze would rustle through the trees and the air would be filled with golden leaves swirling through the air, skittering on top of the creek water before sighing and sinking and giving up to the gentle current. The sun shining unimpeded by any clouds and turning the tops of the trees into a fire of brilliant colors. The leaves will be gone soon in a bittersweet farewell to winter. And I will just exist until the first signs of spring.
I heard the rustle in the buttercups at the side of my local pond and found this it managed to fly out and hide in the reeds on the pond. I am sorry the light was not very good at the time,I would have tried flash but it flew off.
Many thanks to you ALL for the views, faves and comments you make on my shots it is very appreciated.
The silence was a roar
just as I'd been told it would be
when all is still
except the rustle of the trees
and the occasional bird chatter
but even they contribute
to the stillness
the overriding impulse
to surrender to the moment
with no need to think
or even to see
so the eyes can relax their gaze
they'll see anyway
On white-delicate rose petals
The dew lies like angelic tears,
transparent dragonflies are reflected in it,
what are they crying about in heaven? -
About our souls that languish in longing,
If they cannot be helped, they are deplorable,
They strive for heaven from birth
And sometimes they write poetry.
About our thoughts full of confusion,
About those hearts that live without love…
The vessel of fate is filled to
the brim with the Tears of angels, and there is no doubt about it....
“A cold wind was blowing from the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things.”
--George R.R. Martin
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxG-BYtVVuE
"I dream upon the opposing lights of the hour,
Preventing shadow until the moon prevail;
I dream upon the nighthawks peopling heaven,
Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar;
And on the bat's mute antics, who would seem
Dimly to have made out my secret place,
Only to lose it when he pirouettes,
On the last swallow's sweep; and on the rasp
In the abyss of odor and rustle at my back,
That, silenced by my advent, finds once more,
After an interval, his instrument,
And tries once--twice--and thrice if I be there;
And on the worn book of old-golden song
I brought not here to read, it seems, but hold
And freshen in this air of withering sweetness;
But on the memor of one absent, most,
For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye."
Robert Frost
When you hear a large bird like a swan flying over, there is a whoosh as air hits the stiff feather edges making a noise like a cane moving through the air. But owls are reliant on their acute sense of hearing to catch mice and voles, and a whooshing of wing feathers would interfere with their ability to hear tiny rustles from their prey. To counter this, all owls have soft edges to their flight feathers to deaden any feather noise. A cane wouldn't whoosh if it was covered in cotton wool. If you zoom in on the lowered wing of this Barn Owl you can see the softened leading edge to the outer primary feather, which isn't something you can normally see in photographs of wild birds. The edge is finely serrated rather like a hacksaw blade, rather than straight, like the knife edge of most bird flight feathers. I managed to catch this Barn Owl in the early morning sunshine and the shadow cast by its wing is what enables you to see the special feather edge.
When angels visit us, we do not hear the rustle of wings, nor feel the feathery touch of the breast of a dove; but we know their presence by the love they create in our hearts.
Mary Baker Eddy
The drive to a beautiful house overlooking my favourite Cornish coastline. The wind from the sea gently rustles the bushes, and smells fresh, of salt and sea air
Тихо листья шуршат под ногами и молитвенно просят о чем-то своём.
Храм Благовіщення Пресвятої Богородиці, Благовіщенський собор. Святошин. Київ. Україна.
I remember it as a large and spreading tree, spreading its branches in a huge tent. Once there was a storm and broke the willow. Then people came and cut the fallen trunk. The rest were sorry. And life went on.
- so let's take a shot from a while ago...
Bastian (mixed breed), 13.05.2017.
Olympus OMD EM5 Digital Camera.
Not the sharpest shot but it was amazing to watch - - it happened so quick - - he heard a rustle, turned, took 2 quiet steps and then leapt into the grass. Next he was playing volleyball with his catch before finally walking off with his prey.
Serval Cat - Kenya
"In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree." ~Hermann Hesse (Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte)
"Trees enrich our lives throughout the year. They reassure us with the rustle of their leaves, give us shade to soothe our overheated bodies and they bring delight to us when we watch birds nest in their boughs. However, it is only during the fall that they wave flamboyant foliage that seems to demand our attention." ~ Author Unknown
Another from this past fall...it was a foggy Saturday morning; one of those days when most people choose to stay inside, but not me, had to grab the camera and head out for some atmospheric shots....glad I did...feel free to hit the letter "L" on your keyboard for a better look :-)
Have a great Wednesday...thanks for all your visits!!!!!
First time exhibitor in Sculpture by the Sea, Bondi, Queenslander Andrew Cullen presents 'Rustle'.
Crafted from reclaimed timber, this towering water dragon embodies adaptability in the face of changing waters with its poised stance mirrors nature’s resilience, urging us to reflect on our uncertain future.
While watching storks there was a rustle in the shrubs that turned out to be a Zitting Cisticola - - managed a few shots before he ran away.
Zitting Cisticola - Lagos Portugal
“Serenity comes when you trade expectations for acceptance.” - Unknown
We just spent a week camping in the woods with no expectations. It was simply "go with the flow" depending how we felt when we woke up in the morning. On one of our hikes I saw this perfect Water Lily floating along peacefully in the marsh and it was a bit how I felt. It was a serene time for reading a book in my hammock swaying slightly between two trees as the leaves rustled above me.
Resting or preparing an ambush? Phone shot by Lene.
Bastian (mixed breed), 13.10.2018
Samsung SM-G930F Mobile Phone
Extremely drought tolerant, the Feathertop grass (Pennisetum villosum) is among the most beautiful and graceful ornamental grasses. It has large, fluffy and bright white flowers whick look like plumes cascading down, and the light green foliage that rustles in the wind.
This plant typically grows in 2 feet tall (60 cm), from mid-summer until fall, spreading narrow green foliage topped with furry white bottlebrush-like flowers on arching stems.
Welcomed in any garden style, it is versatile and can be used in groups or in masse. It's ideal in borders where it provides texture, color and contrast, but can be planted also in containers. Since it can grow in almost pure sand, planting near the beach is a possibility.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mEXT1O2pio
I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.
Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)