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This buck stops to stretch and rub his face into this spruce bough. They do this as a means to leave their scent , secretions from eye and facial glands, on the bough and leave their mark. They will also nibble on the branch tips and their scent gets left that way as well. This "scrape" is part of their behaviour to mark territory and attract does.
The tip of the Freedom Tower at One World Trade Center.
I had a couple of hours before catching a plane in Newark and ended up in the Liberty State Park, a fantastic spot to get great shots of Lower Manhattan skyline.
∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ SÉGUR-LE-CHÂTEAU ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵
PORTAIL * RUE DES FARGES
► CLASSÉ PARMI LES PLUS BEAUX VILLAGES DE FRANCE, l'antique village de Ségur offre le visage saisissant d'un ensemble préservé par les griffures du temps.
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Total of Iberdrola Tower, the tallest building in the Basque Country and the city of Bilbao with a height of 165 meters, inaugurated in 2012.
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Weathered wooden pier bollard with paint scrapes and rusted cable.
China Camp Village Pier, San Rafael, Marin County, San Pablo Bay, Northern California, USA.
Re-Edit of a shot from Osaka, Japan in 2014. I went there for vacation and of course to take a lot of pictures. This was my 3rd time to Japan, but I want to go back - hopefully soon.
4894, the oldest operational locomotive in Pacific National's fleet, entering service in September 1966, rolls through Meadowbank with a short 4124 from Morandoo to Clyde.
Tuesday 19th January 2021
nutria, coypu or river rat
Nutria
[Myocastor coypus]
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ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴡɪᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ sʜᴀʀᴋs? ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙʟᴇᴇᴅ.
She leans against the side of an old, abandoned wooden boat pulled up on the pebbled shore. A cigarette dangles between her fingers, its thin smoke curling into the salt-tinged air. Her gaze is distant, fixed somewhere between the horizon and the curling waves. The air smells of salt and seaweed, and the rising sun casts a pale gold light across the water.
For weeks now, she’s sought solace in this secluded spot by the sea. The boat, half-buried in sand, has become a familiar companion - a quiet witness to her contemplations.
This morning, however, the peace she’s grown accustomed to is disrupted by the sound of footsteps crunching over the pebbles. A man appears, carrying a small toolbox, his silhouette hazy in the sea mist. His beard is thick and neatly kept, framing his face with a rugged charm. His man-bun, tied high, gleams in the soft morning light, and his light brown eyes seem to hold the glow of the rising sun, warm and searching, like they’ve seen the world and found poetry in its chaos.
He pauses when he sees her, tilting his head in mild surprise.
“You’re sitting on my project,” he says, his tone light but teasing.
She raises an eyebrow, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Your project? Looks more like a relic.”
He grins, the movement softening the edges of his face. “It’s both. Been fixing it up for weeks now.” He sets his toolbox down and gestures toward the boat. “Mind if I get to work?”
She hesitates but shifts to the side, still leaning against the boat. “Didn’t think anyone cared about this thing anymore.”
He shrugs as he kneels by the hull, pulling out sandpaper and tools. “Most people don’t. But I’ve got a soft spot for things that seem... forgotten.”
Their conversation is sparse at first, carried by the rhythm of the waves and the occasional scrape of his tools against the wood. She watches him work, intrigued by his quiet focus. Eventually, she flicks her cigarette into the sand and says, “Why bother? Boats like this don’t belong on the water anymore.”
He looks up, his hands pausing. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s about giving something a second chance, even if it’s just for show.”
His words linger in the air between them, carrying more weight than either of them intended. She deflects with a smirk, suddenly self-conscious. “So, you’re a poet and a carpenter?”
He laughs softly, the sound deep and unhurried. “Just a guy who likes the sea. And maybe fixing things.”
As the tide creeps closer, they keep talking. He shares stories of his childhood by the coast, of how he’s always been drawn to the water and the stories it seems to whisper. She, against her usual instincts, finds herself admitting things she rarely says aloud - about her wandering life, her habit of leaving places before they can leave her.
When he invites her to help with the boat - just to hold a plank in place or test the balance - she surprises herself by saying yes. For the first time in a long while, she feels grounded, her restless energy softened by the steady rhythm of his work and the murmuring sea.
As the morning fades into the afternoon, the boat begins to look less like a relic and more like something alive again. And as they sit together on its edge, their hands smudged with sawdust and salt, she realizes that sometimes, it’s not the destination or the grand gestures that matter - it’s the fleeting, unexpected moments where strangers meet and something intangible shifts, like the tide.
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