Great Egret - Casmerodius albus (note stout yellow beak and black legs)
At first I thought that I spied an albino Great Blue Heron but on enlarging the distant photograph it turns out to be the 'Common Egret' or sometimes 'Great Egret' - in any event Casmerodius albus.
Quiet Night Thought
Quiet Night Thought is the title of a famous poem written by the Tang Dynasty poet, Li Bai (also known as Li Po).
-
- 静夜思
- 床前明月光
- 疑是地上霜
- 举头望明月
- 低头思故乡
-
- Jìng yè sī
- chuáng qián míng yuè guāng
- yí shì dì shàng shuāng
- jǔ tóu wàng míng yuè
- dī tóu sī gù xiāng
-
- Quiet night thought
- at the foot of the bed bright moonlight
- I imagine frost on the floor
- raising my head, I gaze at the bright moon
- lowering my head, I think of my old village
(- and also my old friends)
Vagabond's House - XI (The 10th verse I posted on 30 April 2015
Vagabond's House - continued
by Don Blanding
I hope a couple of birds will nest
Around the house. I’ll do my best
To make them happy, so every year
They’ll raise their brood of fledglings here.
When I have my house I’ll suit myself
And have what I call my “Condiment Shelf”,
Filled with all manner of herbs and spice,
Curry and chutney for meats and rice,
Pots and bottles of extracts rare . . .
Onions and garlic will both be there . . .
And soya and saffron and savoury goo
And stuff that I’ll buy from an old Hindu;
Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jars;
Almonds and figs in tinseled bars;
Astrakhan caviar, highly prized,
And citron and orange peel crystallized;
Anchovy paste and poha jam;
Basil and chili and marjoram;
Pickles and cheeses from every land
And flavours that come from Samarkand;
And, hung with a string from a handy hook,
Will be a dog-eared, well-thumbed book
That is pasted full of recipes
From France and Spain and the Caribbees;
Roots and leaves and herbs to use
For curious soups and odd ragouts.
Around the house. I’ll do my best
To make them happy, so every year
They’ll raise their brood of fledglings here.
When I have my house I’ll suit myself
And have what I call my “Condiment Shelf”,
Filled with all manner of herbs and spice,
Curry and chutney for meats and rice,
Pots and bottles of extracts rare . . .
Onions and garlic will both be there . . .
And soya and saffron and savoury goo
And stuff that I’ll buy from an old Hindu;
Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jars;
Almonds and figs in tinseled bars;
Astrakhan caviar, highly prized,
And citron and orange peel crystallized;
Anchovy paste and poha jam;
Basil and chili and marjoram;
Pickles and cheeses from every land
And flavours that come from Samarkand;
And, hung with a string from a handy hook,
Will be a dog-eared, well-thumbed book
That is pasted full of recipes
From France and Spain and the Caribbees;
Roots and leaves and herbs to use
For curious soups and odd ragouts.
Epitaph
Epitaph
Do not carve on stone or wood,
"He was honest" or "He was good."
Write in smoke on a passing breeze
Seven words… and the words are these,
Telling all that a volume could,
"He lived, he laughed and… he understood."
I wouldn't mind this
by Don Blanding
"He was honest" or "He was good."
Write in smoke on a passing breeze
Seven words… and the words are these,
Telling all that a volume could,
"He lived, he laughed and… he understood."
I wouldn't mind this
by Don Blanding
Somehow
Somehow
I've tried for many an hour and minute
To think of this world without me in it.
I can't imagine a new-born day
Without me here . . . somehow . . . some way.
I can not think of autumn's flare
Without me here . . . alive . . . aware.
I can't imagine a dawn in spring
Without my heart awakening.
These treasured days will come and go
At swifter pace . . . but this I know . . .
I have no fear . . . I have no dread
Of that marked day that lies ahead.
My flesh will turn to ash and clay
But I'll be here . . . Somehow . . . some way.
To think of this world without me in it.
I can't imagine a new-born day
Without me here . . . somehow . . . some way.
I can not think of autumn's flare
Without me here . . . alive . . . aware.
I can't imagine a dawn in spring
Without my heart awakening.
These treasured days will come and go
At swifter pace . . . but this I know . . .
I have no fear . . . I have no dread
Of that marked day that lies ahead.
My flesh will turn to ash and clay
But I'll be here . . . Somehow . . . some way.
© Don Blanding, one of my favorite poets
A Few More Views from Grande Greve Beach - IV
the old F150 keeps on truckin' taking me to some beautiful views
Winter Storage Underway - IV
The sailboat now secured and ready to be pulled to dry-dock, and the diver comes ashore.
Serene - telephoto of previous post - II
Winter Storage Underway - III
the diver checks the relationship of the keel to the submerged hauler and then surfaces to co-ordinate the men with the control ropes AND the driver of the hauling truck who has the controls of a hydraulic lifter and the steel pulling cable.
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