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Wednesday, May 8, 2013

365 Poems: Of an evening

Day 128

We're going to have to leave our cell home during walks; for some reason, nothing makes us want to take pictures more than an evening's trip around the block. And we don't think stopping every five minutes is helping our cardio fitness.

But why is this favorite walk so infinitely interesting to us? It's not a new walk, or a long or particularly, you know, poetic walk ... except, it seems, to us.

Maybe because it's always different in the details, and you know we are all about details, and we must take pictures of those details:


First the ducks, with the mother duck paddling away from me and the ducklings' little legs doing doubletime to keep up.


And the way this skinny pond reflected the weeping willow so gracefully, water like a mirror.


And the pink riot of this crab apple.


And always in this cold and rainy spring, we catch the sun when we can.

And us, a shadowy giant.

And the changing clouds.

No Beatles. Not Abbey Road. 

Kind of 3D, huh?


And the yellow locust welcomes us home.

See? Kind of an amazing walk.




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