Photography ~ Daugerreotypy
Friends
Winter night
Winter Morning
Then
Winter
Wild Bills Tobacco
Mist
Fallen Tree
A Street of New York
A Street - New York ~ An 'unphotographed' spot
Let the evening come
In the Polar Vortex
Photographer
Driving in the Polar vortex
A Stroll in Central Park
Sunset
Knee deep
12" NJ
Books
Winter evening
Morning Light
Moonlight
Robert Burns
Winter River
Woods
Surviving the winter
Driving
Tapioca Usle
Snow Man
Wind & Tree
Winter tale of a Black squirrel
A Wren's Winter Tale
BF
Dingmans Falls
Interior - Capitol Minnapolis
Interior - Capitol Minneapolis
Keywords
Authorizations, license
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- Photo replaced on 08 Feb 2014
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150 visits
this photo by Dinesh


In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.
I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow. ~ Mary Oliver
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.
I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow. ~ Mary Oliver
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