Posted in Nature Photography, Nature Poetry

Silence’s Last Stand

The sound of a Loon echoes
through the wilderness,
The setting sun kisses the tops of the cedars,
Staining the clouds with warm pink and red hues,
As the day deliberately makes its way toward the horizon.

Trout leap from the lakes shimmering in the fading light,
There is calm and peace,
Amongst the Adirondack pine.

This place is silence's last stand,
Her only chance against the endless bustle,
Nature's last true eastern wilderness.


Posted in Nature Photography, Nature Poetry

A New Beginning

A mist hangs over the morning like a curtain of white,
The cool air rolls across my skin,
Bluebirds twirl in the air above my head,
A feeling of joy overtakes me,
As I move deliberately toward the rolling river.

The white-capped river churns with a newness,
Refreshed by rains of the night before,
It roars as if announcing its rebirth,
The mist bounces off its waves,
With an energy that fills the air around it.

This morning I am like the river,
Refreshed born anew and looking toward the horizon,
Roaring with energy,
Ready for a new beginning.

Posted in Nature Photography, Nature Poetry, Wildlife Photography

A Heron in the Fog

The deep white fog rolled into the bay like a tidal wave,
Covering it in a deep sacred shroud of white,
Then the clouds opened, and the rain fell as if it was poured from some heavenly sea,
In the distance, a Great Blue Heron calls out.

He stalks his prey through the fog,
As he moves, raindrops slide down his smooth long gray feathers,
And the deep mud of the bay pulls down his feet with every step.

His movements are like that of the ocean, slow and steady,
Only to be followed by something powerful and unstoppable,
He strikes a violent stab at the ground,
Then disappears fish scales gleaming from his beak into the fog.

Posted in Nature Poetry, Wildlife Photography

What Must Birds Think of Us?

What must birds think of us?
Rushing from one place to the next,
Always in a hurry,
Never once basking in the sun.

What must birds think of us?
So careless,
Yet so precise,
Hardly considered what other creatures need.

What must birds think of us?
Some feeding them,
Some loving them,
But all never genuinely understanding them.

What must birds think of us?
When we destroy their forest homes,
Only to build houses,
And plant new trees.

What must birds think of us?
How wonderful,
How dangerous,
How odd must we seem?