Photo Title: December © Visit her site to see additional photos.
Kerri is an archaeologist with a passion for photography.
Kerri is an archaeologist with a passion for photography.
She loves to do TTV still life photography, as well as travel
and document her travels through photography.
Creative Prompt
Write a poem or song, paint, draw, take a photograph,
or make a collage inspired by this image.
Photo used with permission from Kerri Bastin.
Photo used with permission from Kerri Bastin.
8 comments:
Thx for stopping by my blog and for your nice comments.
3 birds on a wire is what I see.
The one in the middle is female, the other two are male. She's thinking....Goodness, it's cold and it even looks like there may be some rain. I'm just so glad these two young men are at my side. They may not be too close, but sheesh, I can feel their body heat. I just have to decide which one will be the lucky one.
No time to write at the moment, just wanted to say how much I adore this image.
Are you being naughty, Gloria :)
From Therese Broderick--I tried to enter this poem through Wordpress Open ID, but I couldn't figure out how to do so. Does anyone know? Here's my poem.
DECEMBER
Morning will bring another kind
of war here at river's edge
where moonlit fog is gathering
and three sentries keep watch
from one thin, barbed branch
of a cherry tree.
Each bird could have his own perch
but they wait together, one single
last army unit.
And if they sing at all,
their throats open to the contest,
each note playing a sad ballad,
every silence a lesson of battle.
The sky is gray with mist descending upon the inhabitants of this unnamed bay. Most lie sleeping, unaware of this dawn ritual, but three peer through the lifting darkness awaiting their sun's return. They perch together but apart on a twig like branch; it is no larger than those carefully avoided by the predators slowly slinking back into a windowless forest. Silhouetted against a sky slowly acquiring its winter flush, they ruffle black feathers yet to reveal their purple tinges. The air is crisp and small puffs of air can be seen in the air above their curious heads as the sun rises to warm the coming day and dissipate the gray.
These birds are adorable:)
Stalking the Light
Brands, wounds, and unbearable agony. I know I should have schemed earlier. It's almost too late to realize my foolishness...
My feet are sore and pushed running away from my pursuers. My body at times crashes to the ground, feeling heavy in pain when finally I found a place, if not comfortable, at least enough to keep my head and neck intact.
I was panting, even in my hardest effort not to make a sound of breath.
I dropped my weight against a tree, my bare swollen skin uncomfortably rubbing against the roughness of its bark. I raised my head to the skies. The moon spreads light heartwarmingly, as I felt a counter strike of cold wind.
I can hear howls, caws and sounds which all seemed to me the calling of death. The cold air worsening my fearful trembling.
Bitter tears trickles through my cheeks as I began asking myself repeatedly, whispering curses between small breath intakes, "What... have I... done to... deserve this?"
Even though it seems I have outrun the enemies, my whole soul is still completely in threat. I am nothing but helpless, if not to my lord's men's beatings and torture, to the prying eyes of predators in this wild woods.
If not by the darkness of night, I might have even caught sight of crows and vultures anticipating my corpse.
"I have... to run... I have to... escape..."
I hardly stood with the help of the trunk, when shortly, I fell. My legs are numb. I can't walk. I tried to crawl. But the countless bruise and wounds kept me from going further. My body fell flat on the ground. I can't drag my body, heavier with my weakness.
I groaned. I cried. "This can't be the end! No... Why? What did I do to deserve this?"
I gave in a loud cry of bitterness, as if I have already been caught and preyed upon. This is it? This is my end?
And before I knew, I was laughing. Laughing shrilly with moistful eyes lustily craving for revenge.
And then it changed to a desperate sob, like that of a tormented woman, incapable and weak.
I am dying... I know I am. That finally, I accepted my stars.
If, indeed, my hour shall come, I will not delay in embracing my fate, ending my misery, which, I believe, only death can ease.
--Ares
Cute. Cute!
They said we were "cute"!
There couldn't be more hurtful words.
Cute. Cute!
They said we were "cute"!
So we weren't cast in Hitchcock's "The Birds".
Ravens!
Crows! Big black birds again.
Big black birds aren't scary; they bore!
Unite. Unite!
All small birds unite!
Let the ravens be cast nevermore!
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