It Is By Muteness That A Dog

I Am Still Under The Impression That There Is Nothing Alive Quite So Beautiful As A Thoroughbred Horse.

Early Morning Does Not Mince Words.

Come! Let Us Lay A Lance In Rest, And Tilt At Windmills Under A Wild Sky! For Who Would Live So Petty And Unblest That Dare Not Tilt At Something Ere He Die; Rather Than, Screened By Safe Majority, Preserve His Little Life To Little End, And Never Raise A Rebel Cry!

There Are Moments When Nature Reveals The Passion Hidden Beneath The Careless Calm Of Her Ordinary Moods-violent Spring Flashing White On Almond-blossom Through The Purple Clouds; A Snowy, Moonlit Peak, With Its Single Star, Soaring Up To The Passionate Blue; Or Against The Flames Of Sunset, An Old Yew-tree Standing Dark Guardian Of Some Fiery Secret.

Beginnings Are Always Messy.