View allAll Photos Tagged Thrumming
When in flight the swan has long powerful wing beats which produce a thrumming noise which you will often hear as they fly over head. Elegant as always !
What words could I conjure to adequately describe this? My heart raced with excitement, my senses ignited. That is the desert's allure. To be in such a place of barrenness and still feel the thrum of life.
Please, no invitations to award/forced comment groups or to those with large/animated comment codes.
A large and stately hornbill of expansive montane forests. Both sexes are black with snow-white tails. The male has a yellow face and throat patch, while the female has a red patch of skin around the eye and a blue throat patch. Usually seen in pairs or medium-sized flocks, flying between fruiting trees. Usually the only hornbill in highland areas. Gives loud hoarse trumpeting croaks, often while in flight. As with many other large hornbills, wings create a powerful thrumming when flying.
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We had seen these huge birds in both India and Cambodia, but never within photographable range so it was very exciting to find a pair at their nest. This male is keeping an eye on the surroundings while his mate is at the nest cavity.
Here's a link to our Thailand bird trip list: ebird.org/tripreport/328567
Khao Yai National Park, Nakhom Ratchasima, Thailand. February 2025.
Rockjumper Birding Tours.
“I am a dreamer. I know so little of real life that I just can’t help re-living such moments as these in my dreams, for such moments are something I have very rarely experienced. I am going to dream about you the whole night, the whole week, the whole year.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights
Soundtrack : www.youtube.com/watch?v=m2EBncYrozA
MEMORY LOVES YOU – SOPHIE ZELMANI
In dappled sunlight I look across
the lane; the red bricks; window panes
the fences that are inbetween
the hedges; fledglings sing their songs
I feel at peace where I belong
deep in the countryside where time
stands still; where timeless rural scenes of mine
and all those folk who walked before
who trod this ground; this earthy core
of my existence; golden hours
the endless; frameless; bowls of flowers
valleys; fields and silent witnesses
sheep as quiet as ancient tombs
the coolness of the stone church floors
that balm my soul and heal my wounds
I never heard such silent sheep
but they are quiet because they sleep
in blessed peace where no-one shouts
no cars that roar; no roundabouts
the curving; winding country lanes
the turning seasons; weather vanes
the spinning; whirling winds of change
don't linger here; all stays the same
and I am fortunate to be here
to stand; to sit; to meditate
I hear a distant church bell calling
not yet for me; it's not my fate
the biggest, tallest daisies grow here
the fertile soil; the sweetest toil
let meadows; lush, green natural carpet
roll out around and down the hill
meadowsweet and warbling willows
hidden in the canopies
birds of all kinds make their homes here
their world above my head in trees
thick with foliage beneath sheltered skies
here lies the truth; no place for lies
I close my eyes and listen intently
the subtlety of nature's sounds
the heartbeat of the world contentedly
thrums soft rhythms beneath the clouds
I can feel the sweet vibrations
beneath my feet and warmly spread
through my veins and warm my bones
root me; save me; fill my head
with dreams of always living in this moment
one repetition I wouldn't mind
for Heaven exists in moments like this
brings hope to my heart; to my soul; divine.
- AP - Copyright © remains with and is the intellectual property of the author
Copyright © protected image please do not reproduce without permission
HFF : 0))
The Lower Falls aren’t the tallest in the world.
They aren’t the widest, loudest, or most publicized.
But when you stand at the brink and feel the thrum in your chest,
you stop ranking. You just listen.
Because sometimes, the most powerful thing isn’t what falls,
It’s what moves you.
'The Loon Calls Me Out'
The nightly chorus from loon throats,
From lake solitudes that decorate the twilight
In rising and falling ululation.
Where pairs tremolo their duets
That resonate and resound and echo.
For me, this is no wail of sorrow
As it may be for some hearer in grief
It is no dirge of darkness or a’haunting
But it bestirs my core with its longings
For stillness and serenity and the silence
Of a wilderness night pierced only by the echoes
Of created things that raise their voices by instinct.
For me, the silence of nature’s night;
The wind stirring trees, caressing branches,
The tinkling of pebbles at lakes edge, a hooting owl,
The refrains of a frog choir,
And always, always the loon.
Not for me the roar of cities with its barrage of engine thrum,
Strident shouts, sirens and horns
Stabbing the night with uproar, outcry and cacophony
And distant menace
That jar the soul with the din of loneliness.
The wild a place where there are no lies
Or insincerity,
Only the struggle to live another day under the sun.
Let me go where the silence of the night and nature’s songs
Reverberate, if only in my heart.
For, there is no loneliness there.
C.Hill 2021
***********************************************************
Sunset at Keefer Lake last night ... out on the boat looking back toward our cottage which is just below and a bit to the right of the setting sun.
- Keefer Lake, Ontario, Canada -
BODY PARTS
may the wrist turn in the wind like a wing
the severed foot tread home ground
the punctured ear hear the thrum of sunbirds
the molten eye see stars in the dark
the faltering lungs quicken windmills
the maimed hand scatter seeds and grain
the heart flood underground springs
pound maize, recognize named cattle
and may the unfixable broken bone
loosened from its hinges
now lying like a wishbone in the veld
pitted bij pointillisted ants
give us new bearings.
Ingrid de Kok
… to the sound that Venezia makes, all voices and footsteps, reverberating off hard surfaces, intermingled with the occasional, low-pitched thrum of a passing boat.
There's a fence in there somewhere.
littletinperson
Dancing with Fire, music fireworks enjoyed at International Fireworks Festival, Calgary, Canada
Long lasting smoke seems to be a new feature of summers in Alberta with back-to-back years of heavy wildfires in Western Canada. The overcast skies are taking a toll on people’s moods and mental health.
Nobody knows when we will be able to see blue skies or starry nights again. To make the best out of the worst situation, I decided to watch a different sky show – fireworks.
It was the third time that I practiced on photographing fireworks. Some pictures that I took on the hazy night turned out to be the neatest episode threaded onto my firework album.
Wet again! The theme for week #09 is "Macro - Fill the frame" This is one of the modern hybrid primroses in my garden. It is the centre portion of the flower and shows the male pollen bearing anthers. Its been raining again hence the raindrops.
The theme for "Looking Close on Friday" for the 5th of July is "bugs & co", where a photo of an insect or other creeping or crawling small invertebrate (such as: spider, centipede, ant, wasp, moth, cockroach, beetle, butterfly, snail, caterpillar, cicada, damselfy, grasshopper, fly, bee, worm or ladybird) is required. Being winter here in Melbourne there aren’t that many insects around, however my mind was cast back to last spring on a delightfully sunny day with glorious blue skies, when I went for a stroll. As I walked down a street I came across a white sakura cherry blossom in bloom. Not only was it beautiful, but the air around it thrummed as dozens of bees flew happily from flower to flower, enjoying their sticky pollen elevenses! There are few things more pleasurable to enjoy than happy bees busily buzzing away! I hope you like my choice from my archives, and that it makes you smile!
A cherry blossom, also known as a Japanese cherry or sakura, is a flower of trees in the genus Prunus or the Prunus subgenus Cerasus. Wild species of the cherry tree are widely distributed, mainly in the Northern Hemisphere. They are common in East Asia, especially in Japan. They generally refer to ornamental cherry trees, not cherry trees grown for their fruit. The cherry blossom is considered the national flower of Japan.
A tongue bitten and held tight rested within the maw of the fox. Her jaw a thing so tight it looked as though it was likely to shatter with the force of its bite. Gwynne leaned against the railing once more, though now she looked nearer a thing to some gargoyle- poised in a defensive stance over those below. The ease in that lean gone. The little half smile- vanished. It looked as though the fox’s attempts at keeping a tongue stilled from wagging would be successful. Though a pulse thrummed hard against her throat with the talk of dragons, of all things, so near. The woman’s breath quickened with the continued force of her restraint.
Please, no invitations to award/forced comment groups or to those with large/animated comment codes.
A large and stately hornbill of expansive montane forests. Both sexes are black with snow-white tails. The male has a yellow face and throat patch, while the female has a red patch of skin around the eye and a blue throat patch. Usually seen in pairs or medium-sized flocks, flying between fruiting trees. Usually the only hornbill in highland areas. Gives loud hoarse trumpeting croaks, often while in flight. As with many other large hornbills, wings create a powerful thrumming when flying.
---------------
The female was at the nest cavity. We think she was feeding young as she kept on reaching into the cavity. It is hard to believe that such a big bird would be able to squeeze into that little hole to lay and brood her eggs.
Khao Yai National Park, Nakhom Ratchasima, Thailand. February 2025.
Rockjumper Birding Tours.
The French Valley, or Valle del Francés, sprawled majestically before me. Nestled within Chile's Torres del Paine National Park, this dramatic landscape whispered tales of ancient glaciers that carved its rugged beauty. Days one and two had left me spellbound by the turquoise magic of Pehoe and Nordenskjöld Lakes – memories forever preserved in this photograph and in the previous ones.
But the spirit of adventure, even at nearly 59, thrummed with an insatiable curiosity. A tinge of regret for those initial days lingered, but the promise of new discoveries beckoned.
The French Valley is a hiker's paradise. Within its embrace lay a challenging 15-kilometer (9.3-mile) trail demanding a 1,000-meter (3,280-foot) round-trip climb – a testament to the sculpting power of glaciers over millennia. This conquest would lead me to Refugio Paine Grande, perched a respectable 40 meters (131 feet) above sea level. This section forms part of the iconic W Trek, but the valley itself can be tackled as a day hike for those seeking a taste of its grandeur. However, for the truly adventurous, the trail continues for another 8 kilometers to Refugio Paine Grande, a welcome respite after conquering the French Valley.
While the climb promised a physical test, the reward of breathtaking vistas and the satisfaction of pushing my limits fueled my excitement. Pisco sours could wait – for now, the French Valley awaited its conquest.
Yes, spring is in the air, as winter in Melbourne makes a reluctant retreat. A few Saturdays ago it was a delightfully sunny day with glorious blue skies, so I went for a stroll. As I walked down a street I came across a white sakura cherry blossom in bloom. Not only was it beautiful, but the air around it thrummed as dozens of bees flew happily from flower to flower, enjoying their sticky pollen elevenses! There are few things more pleasurable to enjoy than happy bees busily buzzing away! The sakura cherry blossoms on the tree reminded me of little Japanese parasols.
A cherry blossom, also known as a Japanese cherry or sakura, is a flower of trees in the genus Prunus or the Prunus subgenus Cerasus. Wild species of the cherry tree are widely distributed, mainly in the Northern Hemisphere. They are common in East Asia, especially in Japan. They generally refer to ornamental cherry trees, not cherry trees grown for their fruit. The cherry blossom is considered the national flower of Japan.
Yes, spring is in the air, as winter in Melbourne makes a reluctant retreat. Last Saturday was a delightfully sunny day with glorious blue skies, so I went for a stroll. As I walked down a street I came across a white sakura cherry blossom in bloom. Not only was it beautiful, but the air around it thrummed as dozens of bees flew happily from flower to flower, enjoying their sticky pollen elevenses! There are few things more pleasurable to enjoy than happy bees busily buzzing away!
A cherry blossom, also known as a Japanese cherry or sakura, is a flower of trees in the genus Prunus or the Prunus subgenus Cerasus. Wild species of the cherry tree are widely distributed, mainly in the Northern Hemisphere. They are common in East Asia, especially in Japan. They generally refer to ornamental cherry trees, not cherry trees grown for their fruit. The cherry blossom is considered the national flower of Japan.
ʙᴇ sᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ ʙᴜᴛ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ
The city hums beneath her feet, a low, electric murmur that once felt like home but now thrums with the pull of something else, something wilder, untamed. She stands at the edge of a decision, the weight of it pressing against her ribs like a second heartbeat. The wind tugs at the hem of her coat, impatient, whispering in her ear. She exhales, slow and steady, and lets the moment stretch, feeling the sharp thrill of the unknown coil in her stomach. Fear is there, of course - it always is - but she wears it like an accessory, like a shade of lipstick that dares the world to look twice.
She glances once over her shoulder - not out of doubt, but acknowledgment. Of the version of herself she is about to leave, the city that cradled her in certainty, the roads she once walked without question. Then, with a smirk only she understands, she steps forward, in a whole different place. The air shifts. The moment breaks open. And just like that, she is in motion - toward the life that has been waiting for her all along.
Forward is the way.
BODY PARTS
may the wrist turn in the wind like a wing
the severed foot tread home ground
the punctured ear hear the thrum of sunbirds
the molten eye see stars in the dark
the faltering lungs quicken windmills
the maimed hand scatter seeds and grain
the heart flood underground springs
pound maize, recognize named cattle
and may the unfixable broken bone
loosened from its hinges
now lying like a wishbone in the veld
pitted bij pointillisted ants
give us new bearings.
Ingrid de Kok
The Kootenay Valley Railway's hot shot travels east on the former Boundary Sub alongside the Kootenay River near the small community of Thrums, BC.
there is a cage around my heart
made of rose thorns
they do not touch the muscle
that thrums fearfully in my chest
but only because the proximity of the thorns
make it too frightened to swell as large as it could
or should
--sarah bat
BODY PARTS
may the wrist turn in the wind like a wing
the severed foot tread home ground
the punctured ear hear the thrum of sunbirds
the molten eye see stars in the dark
the faltering lungs quicken windmills
the maimed hand scatter seeds and grain
the heart flood underground springs
pound maize, recognize named cattle
and may the unfixable broken bone
loosened from its hinges
now lying like a wishbone in the veld
pitted bij pointillisted ants
give us new bearings.
Ingrid de Kok
✦ Lauren — by Oh! ✦
A Dress Meant for the Nights When Desire Comes to Collect You
The city glowed beneath me in a slow, golden haze, the kind of warmth that settles against your skin and makes your heartbeat feel louder, and as Lauren traced its shimmering metallic softness along my curves, I felt the quiet thrum of anticipation building low and sweet inside me.
The dress clung in all the places he loves, the high cut lifting with each breath, the open sides letting the cool night air kiss the length of my waist, and the quilted fabric hugging me with a barely-there pressure that felt like someone’s hands already knew the shape of me.
✦ Lauren — Made For Women Who Love Deeply
Compatible with the bodies where romance lives:
• Reborn
• Reborn Squish
• Petitote
• Waifu
• LaraX
• Lega
• Perky
• Bombshell
• Nhuma
• Nhuma Momma
Then I heard it— that deep, rolling vibration of spinning blades— his sound, his arrival, his hunger crossing the sky to reach me. The wind lifted the hem of Lauren, warm and teasing against my thighs, just as the helicopter settled into place and its cabin lights spilled over me in soft gold.
He leaned out, eyes dark and slow and utterly claiming, and the look he gave me made every part of the dress feel tighter, warmer, more aware of him. When his hand reached for mine, I stepped into it without question, letting him draw me inside with a pull that felt like desire made physical.
Once the door closed and the city dropped away beneath us, he watched Lauren glow beneath the shifting cabin lights—silver melting into rose, rose into gold—his gaze tracing the fabric as though it were my skin, and when his fingers brushed my thigh, sliding along the warm, shimmering texture, my breath caught in a way that told him everything he wanted to know.
Held against him, wrapped in the dress he could not stop looking at, I felt the night open around us with the soft, intoxicating promise that I was being carried not just upward, but completely, beautifully into him.
✦ Begin your night here at the Cosmopolitan Event:
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/No%20Comment/39/194/22
For other romantic ensembles check out the Oh! Mainstore:
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/La%20Vie%20En%20Rose/98/12...
BODY PARTS
may the wrist turn in the wind like a wing
the severed foot tread home ground
the punctured ear hear the thrum of sunbirds
the molten eye see stars in the dark
the faltering lungs quicken windmills
the maimed hand scatter seeds and grain
the heart flood underground springs
pound maize, recognize named cattle
and may the unfixable broken bone
loosened from its hinges
now lying like a wishbone in the veld
pitted bij pointillisted ants
give us new bearings.
Ingrid de Kok
On the outskirts of Xalren, where structures float in digital mist and the skies pulse with synthetic hues, a lone figure emerges. Intergalactic explorer? Biomechanical sentinel of forgotten worlds? No one knows. But her calm stride and glowing armor suggest she's linked to something greater—hearing the whispers of an ancient intelligence thrumming beneath the metallic ground. (Richard and Sira)
Photo taken at Xalren ~ Sponsored by Whats Lost Spirits, Cult & Faetal
The style card and credits here
With the collaboration of:
TANAKA x TREVOR / [TANAKA x TREVOR] - NEOBUSTER SWORD - (FATPACK) @ in main store
[CL0UD] REITA NOSEBAND - FATPACK @ in main store
LUMAE / LUMAE : Fantasy Skins 2K - MIST @ FF 2025
PETRICHOR /:[P]:- Vaera Claws - Male [Unpacker] v.05 @ in main store
[LOB] ALPHA SWEATER - BLOGGERS @ALPHA EVENT (In main store now)
[LOB] NOTPANTS SHORT - BLOGGERS @MANCAVE (In main store now)
SIMPLE STUFF / [Simple Stuff] Outsider Mask @ FF 2025
ZIBSKA / Zibska [WLRP] ~ Aemilia Set @ in main store now
VORTECH / [VORTECH] CE-U II BOT V1.0 @ FF 2025
NEBUR CYBORG / Axion Shoes / Legacy Male (No PBR)
Thrumming up to the yardboard, L599 gathers speed for the Milwaukee Subdivision as they approach Noble Rd.
the footwork is about
light
through branches
the feet
hold steady
in the earth
listening
for the thrum
of seasons
a sway of light
a breath
and for those inclined:
Rydvall // Mjelva // Jonsson // Haas - Cumberland Gap: www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2hXkoOFlvw
my sincere thanks for the company here!!
and for putting up with my near silence:
shifting house and island and all that..
big dance steps :-)
It is just straight up miserably hot in the Old Dominion this week. Heat indices of like 107 degrees, flooding monsoon downpours every afternoon. August in the south isn't much fun, so lets go back to my roots and cooler temperatures. It's just past 1700 hours on the evening of December 30th as the southbound New Hampshire Northcoast train D8 prepares to depart Tri-City. The thrumming of classic EMDs mixes with the falling snow in the New England woods, as the headlights illuminate the beginning of 82 miles of their journey to Boston. The train will be brought to Dover, where a PanAm railways crew will bring it in all the way to Boston Sand and Gravel.
“Please sit down Madam. The plane is about to take off!”
Well this was different. Someone didn’t seem to have got the message. You know, the one about staying in your seat and buckling up at the moment you're about to set off skyward. All of this was going on behind me and I didn't bother to look round to see who was causing the commotion. For all I knew the trouble maker was standing up to try and get a better signal so she could send her mates a selfie from the cabin.
A few moments later the captain's voice came over the intercom and he didn’t bother to disguise his irritation. “Everybody needs to sit down!” Everybody? Was there more than one of them now? Was someone having second thoughts at the last minute? “If I'm accelerating down the runway and you're standing up, you're going to have a terrible problem. Sit down!” He put a special emphasis on the last two words and repeated them twice. It was an interesting way to start the short flight to Dublin, and one I'd never experienced before. The captain always sounds so assured on an aircraft, but this one had evidently lost his aura of sangfroid. But at last it seemed the message had finally penetrated whoever's abnormally thick skull was holding us up and after a few more minutes, the plane raced along the runway. At this point, Ali and I always hold hands, just in case it's for the last time ever, but today I was travelling alone. I resisted the urge to reach across the empty middle seat and offer a clammy mitt to the young man hiding beneath the pair of enormous white headphones beside the aisle, and instead gazed out of the window as we headed out over the North Cornwall coast. There below was Newquay, with a series of well loved landmarks falling away to the west. Fistral, Crantock, West Pentire, Carter's Rocks, the Cow and the Calf, the bulky outline of St Agnes Beacon near home. All of my playgrounds. As we climbed through the clouds I started to think about the new playgrounds where I'd be spending my time in just a few more days from now. The seat belt signs were switched off and a disorderly queue for the toilets formed within seconds. Boarding had only been delayed by twenty minutes but that was plenty enough time for a number of passengers to swallow another pint of Guinness in the departure lounge before making their way to the gate.
Dublin is a place where a lot of people like to go for the craic, and today, a Friday afternoon, was no exception. There were at least two groups of young men as far as I could tell, and because a certain airline likes to charge extra for passengers to choose their seats, they weren't all sitting together. Just behind me, two guys in their early twenties, who I soon realised were complete strangers, struck up a conversation, and it was impossible not to listen to every word they said. One was from my old home town in Falmouth, the other from a village just a couple of miles from where I live now. The latter was on the first instalment of a double beano weekend. Dublin today, Amsterdam next Friday. He was very excited about it all. Party cities. I needed to have a lie down just thinking about it. Come to mention it, the last time I had a bit too much of the falling down nectar was in Amsterdam in the summer of 2018. I met up with a local photographer who had been hiking in Scotland at the same time as ourselves a few months beforehand, and it soon turned out that neither of us were really drinkers. After we'd taken a few photos around the city centre together we had some beer. Quite a lot of it actually. It's not often I'm singing “Love Really Hurts Without You” at the top of my voice at half past midnight on a tube station concourse. I was a bit delicate at breakfast the next morning.
The cabin crew began the in-flight service. At the same time, the pilot decided to make what may have been an important announcement, but I didn't hear a word of it, such was the clamour among the first five rows to part with six euros for a small can of lager. As you've just learned, I like a beer myself, but I can manage without any for the duration of a one hour flight, you know. Unless I'm in Amsterdam. One of the two young fellows behind me went from announcing he wouldn't be having a beer until he was in Dublin, to ordering three cans in a heartbeat. Although one of them was for his new friend. I thought that was rather nice.
The thing with these short flights is that not long after the noise from the engines changes and you're cruising away towards your destination at maximum altitude, the steady thrum loses an octave once more as you begin to descend. Maybe that's what the captain was trying to tell us. Maybe he was making sure the lady who'd caused some bother earlier was going to behave this time. Or maybe he was putting in an order for a can of Moretti too. Perhaps he needed something to steady his nerves after the earlier incident. For a while we floated beneath the azure sky above a white sea of cotton clouds, before plunging through them and back into the greys, sea blues and greens of autumn in Northern Europe. Below us lay the famous city, pierced down the middle by the River Liffey, the darker colours splashed with patches of weak yellow light that promised much for the adventure to come. To the south stood the Wicklow Mountains, stoical and silent, already receding into the darkening purple hinterland of a November afternoon. Ireland was calling, just as it always has done.
For many on board, Dublin was the end of the journey, those groups of young party people reforming on the ground and racing for the exit and the buses into the city. I had much further to go. Tonight I'd be three hours south of the capital in Cork, where my long since departed Grandad was born at the start of the last century, and where much of the family still lives. A few days spending precious time with loved ones who I hadn't seen for far too long, sharing stories and drinking endless cups of tea. And then later, after I could take no more tea I'd be here, sitting alone on a distant headland in the far west, much like I so often do at home. So familiar, yet so new to me. So wild and untamed in this extraordinary remote peninsula at the edge of the world where Europe finally gives way to the vast and unforgiving Atlantic Ocean. To come to a place such as this was worth every inch of the journey.
Under pulsing lights, the music thrums,
a heartbeat shared by all,
Twisting shadows entwine, spinning stories on the mirrored wall.
In the dance, we lose and find ourselves, as night swallows the call.
✦ Claudia Mini by small ✦
The Bentley glides to a halt, its polished chrome reflecting the star-struck crowd. The chauffeur opens the door, and in an instant, silence falls—just long enough for the world to catch its breath. Then my crimson boot heel strikes the red carpet, detonating the hush into a thousand camera flashes, each burst a jewel of light. “Over here!” they shout. “Who are you wearing?” Their questions fall like sparks, and I answer not with words but with presence—the Claudia Mini by small.
Rising from the seat, I let the cameras drink in every sculpted contour. The hemline, cut at daring angles, flares like petals in motion, while the cling of fabric across my waist and bust carries the same allure once found in the bias cuts of the 1930s. The ribbons cinch delicately at my side, whispering both elegance and seduction. Voices press closer: “Turn to the left!” I pivot just enough to let the BLINN & SOFT PBR fabric shimmer beneath the spotlights, its subtle transparency teasing like silk painted with light.
The Claudia is not simply a dress but a living archive of fashion’s greatest revolutions—echoes of the futurism of the ’60s flicker in its sharp lines, while the unapologetic boldness of the ’90s breathes in its second-skin fit. Each element feels reborn for tonight, sculpted to ignite desire in both fan and lens. “One more shot!” a photographer calls, and I pause, tilting my head, the asymmetry of the skirt fluttering as though charged with its own electricity.
The carpet becomes alive with my name, the crowd thrumming with envy, lust, awe. I stride forward beneath the storm of lights, each camera flash immortalizing not just my arrival but the spell cast by this mini. The Claudia is no mere garment—it is the storm, the spectacle, the headline. And as I vanish into the floodlit entrance of the gala, I smile. Fashion is fleeting. But tonight, I am eternal.
✦ Compatible Mesh Bodies ✦
❤️ LaraX
❤️ PetiteX
❤️ Legacy
❤️ Perky
❤️ Bombshell
❤️ Reborn & Reborn Squish
❤️ Waifu
❤️ NhuMa
❤️ NhuMa Lively
✦ HUD Color & Pattern Options ✦
At a touch, the Claudia Mini transforms into a gallery of temptation:
❤️ Solid Elegance — crimson red, deep noir black, pearl white, sapphire blue, emerald green, and more
❤️ Patterned Charm — whimsical florals, bold abstracts, graphic prints, and the iconic heart motif that flirts with every flashbulb
❤️ Transparency Play — whisper-light sheerness to daring veils, each one sculpted to reveal as much as you dare
✦ Where to Find ✦
The Claudia Mini debuts at Uber:
🔗 [Uber Event]
For more seductive treasures by small, visit the Mainstore:
🔗 [small Mainstore]
“Fashion fades, but the Claudia Mini reminds us—as Yves Saint Laurent once said—that true style is eternal.”
The winter draws to a close, the rains begin to fall, and the haze begins to rise promising a lush spring blossom to come. The skies overhead fill with hazy clouds, the mists on the mountains lingers a bit longer as the temperatures rise. The mountains, they beckon you, teasing you with the thrum of life, sharing glimpses of the world to come. Once grey and dead looking branches beginning to form red tips, urging you to have patience, the smokies shall bloom again, just as the sun shall rise on the morning, and the clouds hang low over the misty mountains.
Read More At:
www.blackthornephoto.com/bl.....ntain-patience
Aperture: f8
ISO: 125
SS: 1/30th
Focal: 33mm
Fujinon 16-55mm
Twelve -Spotted Skimmer
Wings Dark and Silver
Black Midnight upon Two Cubes of Ice
In the Sun Blades Shimmer
Agleam, Bright with Glimmer
Mechanical Unthought
Never Once, let alone Twice
High-Noon-Engine Whirs
Thrum of Wings, Motor Blurs
What Follows? Rattle the Dice
I awoke on a quiet Sunday morning at the USACE campsite at Devils Bench after a restless night. A local idiot boomed his white boy rap well into the night, and I hadn't slept well. Light crept into the eastern sky, and I decided that it was a good morning to sleep in. The UP had other ideas. No sooner had I flipped over in my tent I heard it: the faint thrumming of prime movers and crescendo of the rush of metal wheels on rails. A train was approaching.
Sleep now forgotten, I jumped out of bed and tore down camp as the train blew by across the river. Although trains in this area can beat a railfan about anywhere, I knew I could beat it to Hooper, and the sun should be making some great light by that time as well.
I arrived at Hooper with ample time to line up a shot from the old county road overpass there. The code line and graceful curve have made this a place I've wanted to shoot for many years, and I finally have the chance. Once again, the distant sounds of a train came into earshot, then here it came, around the corner in perfect light. This time I was well ready for it. A simple shot, but one of my favorites from my trip.
Flit's gaze lingers, peering across the stark expanse of the desolate wasteland, haunted by the echoes of a marketplace that once thrummed with life, drawing in the curious and the adventurous from far and wide. These days, a solitary vulture, gliding ominously above, is her only regular companion. Encounters with another soul, alive and breathing, are as rare as finding coal.
Her days are consumed with the relentless pursuit of survival, combing through the remnants of a forgotten era, her hands tirelessly gathering the glinting fragments of scrap. Each piece, a beacon of hope, a currency for the future. Amidst the unforgiving cycle of the season of withering, she amasses her treasure, dreaming of the day she can barter at the next bazaar.
Her spirit is tested, her strength waning, but Flit clings to life with a fierce tenacity. Will she cross the fissure and survive to see another day? Only time, as harsh and relentless as the wasteland itself, will tell.
♫ ♬ ♫ ♪ ♩ NEEDTOBREATHE - Wasteland
CREDITS
Dura-B111
Miu - Emely denims
Semller Worn Canvas Hi Tops Festival Edt. Black
POLYDOLL / oversize bomber
[ west end ] Pose Stand - Male Collection 122
Oh, how deeply she understood the dark and twisted design they had laid bare before her; yet, an insatiable craving ignited within her heart for that coveted title! How it seethed and simmered in her very soul, driving her to conjure a cataclysmic scheme that could only be birthed in the depths of despair! She languished in anticipation, a tempest of emotion coursing through her veins, as she waited, aching, for the moment they would pour the sanguine elixir down her quivering body. As the warm, crimson liquid flowed over her, embracing her like a long-lost lover, it awakened the fearsome demon that lay dormant within her, thrumming with a deadly purpose!
Her loyal match, a symbol of her fierce resolve, concealed just out of sight, poised and ready, awaited her command—a faithful companion in this dance of chaos! And with the first swing, oh, the exhilarating release! The head severed from its weary owner—oh, the sweet, intoxicating taste of revenge surged through her! In that instant, every ounce of rage that she had buried deep within erupted like a raging volcano, and she could no longer contain it! No longer a mere whisper of fury—it transformed into a symphony of vengeance, echoing through the very marrow of her being!
The capped spectral glided silently between the gravestones, its translucent form flickering like candlelight in the cool autumn air. Shadows danced beneath the gnarled branches of ancient oaks, where the moon's pale glow filtered through leaves like whispers of forgotten secrets.
On this All Hallows' Eve, the air was thick with an electric tension, a mix of reverence and mischief. The spectral, cloaked in a tattered cape that shimmered like mist, kept watch for any mortals daring to trespass into this hallowed ground with ill intent.
The graveyard, usually a place of peace, thrummed with the energy of the night. A soft rustling caught the specter's attention. A pair of figures emerged from the darkness, laughter echoing off the weathered stones. Their intentions were clear—a challenge to the spirits that lingered, a game that could awaken the wrath of the undead.
With a gentle sweep of its ethereal arm, the capped spectral prepared to intervene. The graveyard had its rules, and tonight, it would protect its sanctity, for the veil between worlds was thinnest on this night. As the mortals approached a particularly ominous tombstone, the spectral whispered an ancient incantation, causing a chill to rise and the air to shimmer with foreboding.
"Beware," it murmured, its voice a blend of rustling leaves and distant echoes, "for not all who wander here seek solace." The night had just begun, and the spectral was ready to ensure that the graveyard remained a refuge for the restless souls, not a playground for the reckless.
Manipulated image with some AI.
The 1500 Rockingham crew has almost completed their few mile transfer from Rockingham Yard to HOT. After getting stuck in traffic, en route from the Bedford Highway, and missing a vital turn, I JUST made it here in the nick off time as I could hear the thrum of the 645 prime movers in the rock cut. The daylight this time of year is not extremely bright in late afternoons, and the dampness of the day didn't help at all, but I still managed to squeeze this one in, for a final shot of the day.
There's nothing quite as cute as fluffy kitten paws!
Happy Caturday! * Paws
*Explore: 428, Jun 4, 2023
🐾🐾 🐈🐈🐈🐱🐱🐱🐾🐾
Grabbing and bunching
Drumming thrumming kicking
Feline happy feet.
---Haiku by Cat
'TAKEN AT SECRET LIFE LOUNGE FOR 10TH ANNIVERSARY PHOTO CONTEST' . maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Beausoleil/190/3/26
Every year, on the night when the sun dipped low enough to touch the sea, the village lit the Path of Bottled Stars.
They said the bottles weren’t lanterns at all, but memories—each glowing spark a moment someone wished to keep safe. The bridge only appeared fully on this night, its planks illuminated by drifting orbs that rose like fireflies set free.
Tonight, Alex walked it alone… or almost alone. Bullet, his loyal dog trotted beside him, tail wagging as if it sensed the quiet excitement thrumming in the air.
He had left this place years ago, chasing answers, chasing life, chasing anything that wasn’t the heartbreak he’d fled from. But every dream he’d ever had in the years since ended the same: standing on this bridge at sunset, staring toward the town he once called home.
Tonight felt different. The air shimmered with a soft hum, as if the bottled memories recognized him.
As he reached the center of the bridge, one of the orbs drifted close—glowing warm gold. It pulsed gently, hovering at his chest, as if asking a question.
“Are you sure?”
He exhaled. “Yeah,” he whispered.
The orb brightened—then burst into thousands of tiny stars that spiraled toward the shore.
A silhouette stepped out from the glow on the other side. Familiar. Unmistakable. Waiting.
The dog barked once, happy and impatient.
He smiled—small at first, then with the sudden, overwhelming certainty that after all the running, all the years lost, the path was leading him home.
And so he walked forward, through the drifting lights and the shimmering memories, into eternity toward the person he had never stopped missing.
There was a peaceful and quiet thrum of Spruce Flats Falls as it cascaded into the main pool below. A few autumn leaves settle on the water's surface only to spin around in the nearly invisible eddies.
She was never the pretty doll everyone yearns to possess; instead, she carried an unsettling aura that sent shivers through everyone who dared to gaze upon her. Over the years, countless hands claimed her as their own, yet their touch was anything but tender. They mistreated her, shattered her spirit, and cast her aside like yesterday's refuse. Torn apart, neglected, and forgotten, she endured the heart-wrenching torment of being discarded or passed off to those who held no appreciation for her fragile existence.
But fate, with its relentless whisper that dances in the shadows of the night, weaves a tapestry of purpose around her very being. A powerful voodoo Priestess, inexplicably connected to the tragic essence of this forsaken and shattered doll, felt the anguished heartbeat of sorrow and fury thrumming just below the surface. She recognized the indomitable spirit imprisoned within that battered exterior. In an act of profound magic and empathy, the Priestess breathed life into her, igniting the flickering flame of a soul damned. She gifted her a voodoo doll, intricately linked to the tormentors whose cruelty had scarred her existence, a vessel of vengeance and a radiant beacon of hope in her darkest moments.
www.primfeed.com/wednesdayy.bloodstone
Peppermint Patty breathes in the adventure. The air crackles with an almost palpable energy, a constant hum of anticipation and movement.
"Oboy, oboy," she thinks. "I've got to get a window seat. I've just got to!"
Visually, the Paprihaven train station is a kaleidoscope of activity. The platforms themselves are stages upon which streams of people pass by, the jumble of their conversations a flow of individual stories converging and diverging.
"Hmmm... but I also need to check out the passengers. I want to sit next to someone looks interesting and talkative. No sleepers or sourpusses!"
The vast arching ceilings add to the ambiance of something momentous. They lend natural and artificial light along with the electronic departure and arrival boards. Each flickering change of venue promises the lure and lore of travel.
"Okay, gotta keep my ticket ready and accessible for the collector."
Vendors at newsstands and coffee shops add splashes of color, their displays of magazines, snacks, and steaming cups of coffee a beacon for weary travelers.
"Did I remember my sandwiches? Yes! One peanut butter, jelly, and banana, and one cheese and baloney."
And of course, the trains themselves are monumental presences – sleek, powerful machines of steel and glass, their windows reflecting the bustling scene around them.
"This train is my favorite type. I love their seats!"
The soundscape of a busy train station is equally rich and complex, a cacophony that somehow harmonizes into an urban symphony. The most dominant sound is the constant murmur of human voices, a low thrum of conversations in countless languages, punctuated by bursts of laughter or the occasional shouted farewell.
"Everyone is dressed so nice. I guess blue was the memo. That lady even has one blue stocking. Ah, well. Never let AI dress you."
This is layered with the rattle and roll of luggage wheels on the tiled floors, a rhythmic percussion that underscores the flow of people. From the tracks, there's the distant, echoing rumble of an approaching train, growing steadily louder until it culminates in a powerful whoosh as it pulls into the station. The hiss of air brakes is a sharp, characteristic sound, followed by the metallic groan of the doors opening and closing.
Over it all, the disembodied voice of the station announcer cuts through the din, a calm, authoritative presence relaying vital information about platforms and delays, often accompanied by the distinctive chime or melodic jingle that precedes each announcement. The occasional toot of a train horn adds a deeper, more resonant note to this intricate sound tapestry.
"Did I put my favorite mixtape in my cassette player? Did I remember my headphones?"
Together, the sights and sounds create an atmosphere of constant motion and fleeting connections, a place where journeys begin and end, and the pulse of travel life beats strong.
"It's going to be a great day!"
Yes, just 'a day'. You see, Peppermint Patty loves train travel so much, she saves up her allowance to ride the train around Paprihaven. She will disembark at the Eastern Woods and enjoy a lunch and a few hours of relaxation at one of the parks there. Then get back on the next train and complete the circuit.
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A year of the shows and performers of the Bijou Planks Theater.
Peanuts Collection
50 Years Celebration
Peppermint Patty
1998, Flambro
Flambro is another of our favorite brands for the Peanuts license. We had an account with them when we had our collectibles store and Flambro never failed to delight with their colorful and innovative designs.
This series, celebrating the 50th anniversary of Peanuts (Which occured in 2000), features nine figurines, each of them incredibly cute, such as Peppermint Patty here.
Yacht club marina at Wrest Point, Hobart on a soggy day. Not much happening beyond the rattle of halyards against spars and the ghostly, moaning thrum of wind through rigging.
I simply liked the bar-graphs made by the masts in the reflection and the sky! :-)
Fujifilm TX-1/Hasselblad XPAN, Fujinon EBC 45/4, 1/125th sec at f/11, Ilford FP4 Plus 125
We bought this property last September, after the garden had gone to seed and the meadow was dried grass. The plants had all gone dormant. Winter came with snow. The rain of the Pacific Northwest fell and continues to fall. Then the grassland woke up. Now we are surrounded by acres of waist high daisies punctuated by lupine, poppies, buttercups, vetch and a dozen other blooms. Plus I seeded in another dozen species of native wildflowers after the thaw. The wildlife enjoys the flowers and grasses as well. Coyotes and bobcats hunt the rodents, pollinators buzz all day, Rufous and Anna’s thrum all day, Siskins and Finches and Juncoes munch seed heads.
My three neighbors have more acres than I do, and what do they do with them? Mow. Mow. Mow. Endless mowing on ride-on mowers, acres and acres of smooth pretend lawn. The effort expended, the noise, the exhaust, the weaponized aerosol plant blood, the chopped up rodents and snakes and frogs - I simply do not understand. I do mow the common path that leads through our property and the verge of the long dirt two track that leads to the house, and we maintain a fire-break around the structures - that part I will do. Reluctantly.
I am lucky that, at least to my face, everyone is cool with the flowers. Turns out the last owner also refused to mow.