Well, it might have been a bluebird, I don’t know But he’d get stone drunk and talk about Alaska
The salmon boats and 45 below
He got that blue wing up in Walla Walla Where his cellmate there was a Little Willy John And Willie, he was once a great blues singer And Wing & Willie wrote him up a song
(They sang,)
“It’s dark in here, can’t see the light But I look at this blue wing when I close my eyes And I fly away, beyond these walls Up above the clouds, where the rain don’t fall
Like spirits, they will dart across our path in drifts, and zig-zag past our cheeks and hands just out of reach, and whirling toward a land far north of us, by predetermined math.
It seems a miracle, winged migration— almost as hard to fathom as moon flight. What tiny compass guides them day and night in rivers of raw determination?
Their journey symbolizes more than hope: They breathe into each moment the belief that happiness as real and bright as wings is just ahead … and therefore we can cope,
and fill heavy hearts with newfound lightness, and bathe a moment more in their brightness.
Hiking Bighorn Country In The Santa Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne
“Nature” is what we see— The Hill—the Afternoon— Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— Nay—Nature is Heaven— Nature is what we hear— The Bobolink—the Sea— Thunder—the Cricket— Nay—Nature is Harmony— Nature is what we know— Yet have no art to say— So impotent Our Wisdom is To her Simplicity.
RT @totallytucson: Happy Friday, #Tucson! 99 and cloudy today. These morning hikes before 7am are delightful. High 70’s with a slight breez… 3 hours ago
Becoming is Superior to Being 