One-Eyed Jack

The sun was beginning to set by the time I eluded my final pursuer. Having a moment to rest, I studied my surroundings. I had never been this far in the woods before. Some things ... or some thing... was moving in the overhead canopy, but the dying light and thick clumps of leaves kept the source of the rustling well hidden. Some distance to the left a full-throated basso choir of frogs commenced their evening performance. Dropping on the moss and resting my head against a dead sycamore, I thought, "So, water's close by and, in theory, the mosquitoes should be few. Not bad. I've slept in worse places." I then closed my eyes and fell instantly asleep.

Sarah and the Crickets (apologies to the memory of Buddy)

The above is an article written by Sarah that was published in the Beaver Creek Wetlands Association's "The Spotted Turtle," volume 3, number 4, Fall 2017. Yup, her mother and father are kind of proud of her.

Merry Christmas!

The image may be in shades of gray but the sentiment is festive and bright!  From our home to yours, MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Ebenezer Scrooge

There's no story behind this poor little doodle except that it was inspired by an Anthony van Dyck portrait... and that's no humbug.

Poe

"The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crisped and sere --

The leaves they were withering and sere:

It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year..."

-- "Ulalume: A Ballad"

On October 7, 1849, Edgar A. Poe, wearily whispering, "Lord, help my poor soul," slipped from his life's short story and into the mystery of eternity. As every schoolchild has thought, how sadly fitting that he should take his leave in the month of Halloween and lengthening nights, at the time when the colors of autumn begin to turn gray, the vegetation withers beneath a canopy of massive, monstrous clouds and the whole earth seems to be solemnly slipping into the cold shroud of winter. Like countless others, Poe had a sad, short life; but his art has endured... and what better fate could any artist have?

Gorgon

The sound was similar to the piercing cry of a hawk or, at times, to the yapping of a small dog. Yet there was also something unearthly about it, some indescribable element of... what? Agony? Well, of something strange and dark and indefinable. It waylaid the the two men traveling through the forest. Fascinated and appalled by the mysterious strident notes, they followed the siren call through the tangled underbrush until they reached the top of the hill where they finally rested, rubbing their barked shins and scratches. Peering in a small clearing in the vale below them, they saw the source of the haunting cry. It was a gorgon.

The Fledgling

I closed the door behind me a heartbeat before the storm broke. The proprietor of the pet shop glanced up from his book and gave me a half-smile. Leaning over the ebony counter he looked for all the world like some Dickensian character out of his rightful time. Truth to tell, the shop itself seemed anachronistic and unreal: a musty, cluttered labyrinth of cages and tanks, smells and noises, most of it enshrouded by oblique shadows that the shop's undependable light did not penetrate. Attempting to ignore the slight unease I felt at not being able to discover the light source, I returned the proprietor's half-smile with a  half-smile of my own.