Contributor Posts

I hear the sound of Fall in the air
as the Canadian Geese fly by.
Honks in the morning, at daylight;
no other sounds are heard until
they return when it is Twilight.

Dark is the night,
if the Moon is away,
as stars awaken
twinkling their array.

A Tumbleweed, a remarkable plant,
which propogates with a wind aided dance.
Across the ground, wind swept they go,
until stopped by a fence line
or out building, although
the brush will pile high, reaching
up to the sky. The brush has stickers
and will grab on fast, with a
grip from an ancient past.

From picturesque Mediterranean isles to New York’s bustling harbor, strategically placed oyster colonies are depolluting the sea with ease. Read more  -   Photo credit: Peter Yeung

When the dawn breaks,
there is no noise,
except for the Rooster
who crows to say,
"Time for all to rise,
on this brand new day."

Where goes the light
at the end of the day,
when the sunlight has faded
and gone it's own way?

The Sun has risen.
The sky obscured by cloud.
I am happy we have rain,
in spite of the dark shroud
worn on this dreary day.
Perhaps the Sun will appear
driving all the clouds away.

Sing to me
sweet Chickadee,
a song of when;
this pretty Wren.
It's a tweet,
so very sweet
to my ear.
Now your here,
in this place.
My smiling face,
longs to hear
and you appear.
Like a Dove
bringing a love
a friendly noise.

Among the trees of Fir and Pine,
deep within the shadows, no sunshine.
Tucked away beneath the tall trees,
awaits a surprise, which will please.
A pool of water, shiny, Crystal clear
where love awaits and hovers near,
waiting for a single partner to say,
I love you, now have a nice day.

> Recognise the creativity behind crime, then you can thwart it || by David Cropley : Psyche

> The Deep Roots of the Vegetable That ‘Took Over the World’ || by Gemma Tarlach : Atlas Obscura

> The mice that roared: how eight tiny countries took on foreign fishing fleets || by Christopher Pala : The Guardian

It was early,
it was morning,
the Sun yet to rise.
A sound heard,
a tapping noise.
A staccato of taps.
Startled, now awake,
the taps came once more,
rattling the window.
Darn Flicker,
your beak and head,
using as a hammer.
Making all the noise.
I'm now awake,
the noise was intense,
so getting up,
is what I did.

A dead branch
amongst the leaves,
is gray in color,
contrasting with hues
of reddish-purple,
Japanese maple tree.