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Fallen leaves of Japanese Maple, Acer palmatum, on a mossy bank in the Seattle Japanese Garden, Seattle, Washington State, USA
“The Tree" [Stone Mountain Park]
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Woods by Wendell Berry
I part the out thrusting branches and come in
beneath the blessed and the blessing trees.
Though I am silent there is singing around me.
Though I am dark there is vision around me.
Though I am heavy there is flight around me.
[From Collected Poems, 1957-1982. North Point Press, New York (1985)]
...As I bring my Ophthia series to a close and contemplate my next series...I find myself deep in the wild, losing myself in our Mother Earths boundless wonder.
*Prints available at www.ebay.com/usr/s.gustke
At Little Bay de Noc Campground (after it was closed for the season) on the Stonington Peninsula in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.
This image is from a Meridian Raw CIC facilitated photography trip to Ashclyst Forest at Killerton Estate, as part of the Chasing the Light Photography Project in Exeter, Devon, UK on Thursday 24th March, 2022.
It was rainy, can you tell??
California's Coastal Redwoods at Muir Woods National Monument in Marin County.
"It's vital to remember who you really are. It's very important. It isn't a good idea to rely on other people to do it for you, you see. They always get it wrong."
- Terry Pratchett
This image is from a Meridian Raw CIC facilitated photography trip to Ashclyst Forest at Killerton Estate, as part of the Chasing the Light Photography Project in Exeter, Devon, UK on Thursday 24th March, 2022.
From my back yard. Owl season.
White Owl Flies Into And Out Of The Field
by Mary Oliver
Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings—five feet apart—
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow—
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows—
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us—
as soft as feathers—
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
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