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The Downy Woodpecker spends her life longitudinal, either looking up the trunk of a tree to the sky, or down to the roots. But our bird tray forces her to tip to the horizontal. She hurriedly pecks at suet-cake. Then, made dizzy by a world at right-angles, she tilts her entire body backwards: yes, the sky is still there. Phew. The beaver crouches on the forest path. Morning sun glistens off his walnut-brown coat, still spiky with salt-water. Pieces of chewed wood lie about him. My dog Charlotte leaps forward. A fellow who understands that sticks are treasures of boundless delight! What fun we will have together! Ugh, thinks the beaver. He drops his stick and trundles down the acute, scrabbly slope to the bay, the very picture of disgruntlement. Charlotte charges after him, going so far as to step on his funny flat tail as he plods into the sea. Oh, the indignity! He swims parallel to the shore, his eyes accusatory: My sunbeam. My stick. Stupid dog.
SYNDICATION: LiveJournal ARCHIVES: October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 |
& FOR HER NEXT TRICKS: KAT & MOUSE 2 AGENT BOO 2 *** RECENTLY: MESSIAH COMPLEX 1 AGENT BOO 1 KAT & MOUSE 1 SMOKE *** Brief Loves: *** Friends & Conspirators: Admired Strangers: *** Musical Exotica:
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