Would you begrudge me the chance to see the beauty you display when a mate you find and upon a branch the two of you pass flowers to each other, feed each other, and rub bills?  Would you think me a voyeur for letting my eyes rest a while on that scene?

Did you feel me intrusive when, after I spied you and your friends dashing about the treetops, I gave chase and followed you through the thicket and woods?  Or did you notice the camera and, at least for an instant, stop to show off your unrivaled splendor?

Even as you held me with disadvantage through your erratic flits from treetop to treetop, always moving further uphill as I scampered along beneath, and even as your kith and kin scurried about on waxy wings through branches and foliage thick, more than once you drew near enough to meet my eyes from behind your dark mask.  Then away, away you flew, away toward what meal of fruit you might find for breakfast.

And I felt grateful for the encounter, brief though it was.

[Cedar waxwings (Bombycilla cedrorum); although ubiquitous at White Rock Lake and something I've seen before, I drooled at the chance to capture an image or two of these magnificently exquisite birds; they offered me just such a chance last Saturday]

Read the last chapter first, but don’t read the last page.  Save that for later.

Thus begins “The Kingswell Chronicle” with Dreamdarkers.

My attention has focused on the first major rewrite of this novel, my first of many, and throughout I have searched within the confines of my own imagination to discover the secret of this tale, the magnificent truth of what Dreamdarkers begins by way of Dave Lloyd’s writ.

Now I have the answer.

The whole of the ordeal never escaped me, mind you, yet how one thing might lead to another remained a mystery.  Dare I begin at the end and tell a story in reverse?  Or dare I spin a yarn that must needs start with a finish only to foretell a commencement?

What this book says introduces a whole by way of a conclusion, one that demands a beginning without revealing what rests betwixt the two.

I thought it was important to write this.  I thought it was important to document our ordeal.  I really thought it was important.  I’ve witnessed the end of the world.  I can’t help but feel I’ve done a moderately poor job of making clear precisely how terrible things have been.  I suppose at this point it doesn’t really matter.  I know what I have to do.  Now I just need to do it.

To what does Dave refer?  Only by reading Dreamdarkers will you know.

The story that follows this introduction, of course, is an account that births itself via the existence he explains in Dreamdarkers, an introduction that begins where his story ends, an introduction that speaks of the very culmination that End of the Warm Season will inaugurate.

A new light shines upon “The Kingswell Chronicle” that heretofore remained in shadow.

A new inspiration befalls an author that escaped him until this moment.

A new dedication to a dream rests upon my shoulders.

Prepare yourselves, poppets, for “The Kingswell Chronicle” has truly just begun…

The family farm has enjoyed a veritable explosion of births recently.  There are more calves than I can shake a stick at.

And what devilishly, marvelously enchanting creatures they are, so full of verve and vigor, so young and cute.  They dash about the pastures in leaps and bounds, often ignoring their mothers’ attempts to assert control.

Here’s a small sampling of the babies I photographed almost two weeks ago.

[edited to correct the typo xocobra so politely drew my attention to in the comments]

It goes without saying that I possess a rather sensitive emotional self, one seemingly at odds with the logical part of me that demands objective detachment when facing life’s tribulations.

So why then do I weep prolifically when I face such moments?

A female mallard duck (Anas platyrhynchos) with a deformed leg.

I watched her for some time as she hopped along the shore of an island within Sunset Bay’s confluence.  She rested, she moved along, she interacted with the other mallards and she stumbled across uneven ground.

Rejected by her kind as they avoided her without sympathy, I wept even as I knew I could do nothing to help her.

Despite her deformity, she seemed able to navigate the world sans too much trouble.

‘Too much’ being the operative term, however, as I witnessed the anguish of her stumbling and her discomfort with being unable to follow her kind with the ease they so readily demonstrated.  Likewise, I witnessed how her fellow mallards shunned her, chased her away with able bodies even as she trembled on one limb trying to escape.

A male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) with a deformed foot.

He seemed able, even mated with a female who never left his side.

Yet I watched him struggle upon a bent and crooked foot, one incapable of grasping a twig for steadiness, one not able to support steady weight upon a dry stone.  He hopped unlike his brethren who walk from foot to foot.  He tripped at least once as I looked after his progress.

Gripping the edge of a rock with only one foot as he leaned toward the water’s surface for a drink, he tripped and fell, nearly dunking his full form into the water below.  In defiance, he grabbed a twig, a bit of nest material, beckoned to his love, then flew off with her by his side.  Yet I knew the trouble facing him once he reached the tree that held their hope for a future generation.

A crested Indian runner (Anas platyrhynchos) cursed with the heartlessness of humanity.

First seen by me and others near year’s end with this wretched curse tied about his head, many joined me in asking for help from organizations specialized in rescuing such creatures.

Yet none have seen him since the first week of January.  None can speak to his wellbeing.

All because he stood wounded by the careless trap of people.

I wonder if I am silly for crying, for lamenting the state of these creatures, for the weeping of my own soul in response to the suffering of life.

[Loki]

Phone dropped in a puddle, perhaps the only such puddle to be found in all of Marshall, Texas.  Zapped.  Gone.  Broken beyond words and left in an unstable and increasingly useless state.

Replaced, said phone, but not yet setup properly.

This morning, to my terror, two calls from the family farm.  Both from last night.  One pronouncing death.

My father’s mother, my grandmother, died yesterday.  No surprise, I admit, yet we can never truly be “prepared” for such a thing.  Informed, perhaps, and somewhat expectant even, but never prepared.

Her condition had declined for quite a while, worsening these past few weeks to the point of certainty: she would die in a matter of weeks, not months, and perhaps in no more than a few days.  It took barely that long.

Meanwhile, more pressing health matters worsened, grew colder and more menacing.

Three stricken.  One ailing, spiraling out of control, rapidly jaunting down a path we all must follow.  Another wounded, debilitated, left aching.  The last gone, passed away, fallen to that illness called life that eventually takes us all.

I stand, ponder, worry, suffer an emotional breakdown at work that leaves me unable to function.

But it’s not about me.

Yet those left behind cannot help but feel as much, feel betrayed, feel stabbed in our souls as we search for what’s left behind.

And as we look toward the future with uncertainty, with a knowing gaze that falls upon the next emergency, the next horror that dwells in future’s shadow, that lurks just beyond the next bend.

Finally left feeling that which seems all too familiar, that which curses the living with thoughts of the dead.

I’ve been down this road before.  I’ll travel this road again.  I hate this journey.

[Prev | Home | Next]

I have in my hands the final contract for use of one of my photographs in a wildflower field guide.

How marvelous to see a company utilize integrity and fairness when dealing with the copyrighted material of others.

The contract is simple, clear, and precise.  It spells out in no uncertain terms precisely what they can do, what time constraints they have to work within, what my rights are, what rights I’m consigning to them, and what steps they will take to protect my material while it’s in their possession.

The company?  Adventure Publications, Inc.

This is a respectable organization, one I will enjoy doing business with and one I hope to do business with in the future.

As for the book, let’s hold off until publication is finalized (probably this summer).  Assuming my image does indeed wind up within those pages, I will tell you here precisely what title and availability date will carry my name and photograph.

I needed some kind of good news today…  (More on that statement in a bit.)

Red-eared sliders (Trachemys scripta elegans), native to the warm southern regions of the U.S., began making their presence known early this month as temperatures warmed.

I found that pair resting atop a log as they basked in sunshine amidst reeds meant to hide their presence.  Only when I approached did the larger one make clear its namesake: it slid off the log and disappeared into the water with barely a gesture.

The smaller one remained, watching me carefully, my slow movement in its direction not going without notice.  Ever watchful, ever careful, its gaze never faltered as I pretended to be oblivious to its sunbathing.  I don’t think I fooled it.

Yesterday while meandering around the park during a charity walk, I again stumbled upon one of these red-eared marvels as it rested in Dixon Branch.  I never caught it by surprise despite my efforts to seem unaware of it.

In regions with warm weather and warm water, these beautiful turtles often are seen lined up and piled up, their social nature making sunbathing a group event when necessary.

The pet trade has unfortunately spread them around the globe.  Even in the U.S. they continue to be a favorite amongst sellers and buyers looking for a terrapin, an unfortunate truth which has dwindled their numbers through overharvesting and reintroduction (thereby passing along captive diseases to wild populations).

Nevertheless, I’m thrilled White Rock Lake supports a thriving populace of these creatures such that bales of them can be seen around the area from spring through autumn.

Partly cloudy.  Either I blew out the highlights because the sun popped out after I’d setup the shot or I captured a murky, dark scene because the sun vanished behind clouds after I had the camera ready for a shadowy image.

Windy.  Not only was I knocked about like so much paper blowing in the breeze, but many of my subjects likewise had a hard time sitting still—meaning I have lots of blurry pictures and lots of photos missing the main target.

Fingerprint.  At some point during this morning’s walk, and without realizing it, I planted my fat thumb right in the middle of the UV filter and left a remarkably clear imprint that happily sat between the lens and everything I tried to shoot from that point forward.

Sunglasses.  I kept forgetting I had my sunglasses on, so I’d set the lighting too high based on the dimmer view I was seeing rather than what the camera was seeing.

Some days it’s just not worth chewing through the restraints…

Last weekend offered a beautiful opportunity to wander about White Rock Lake like some kind of naturalist vagabond.  Heavy rains from the prior week’s thunderstorms had given way to clear skies, comfortable temperatures and energetic wildlife.

The floodplain still under significant amounts of water, this mated pair of blue-winged teals (Anas discors) played coy each time I approached.  I still was able to capture this photograph from a distance as they watched me with suspicion.

The bridge across Dixon Branch houses a thriving flight of barn swallows (Hirundo rustica).  While many of their friends flitted to and from the bridge with nesting materials, this pair sat quietly in the shade and watched, almost as though they couldn’t believe the others didn’t stop to enjoy the morning.

I spent a great deal of time chasing this killdeer (Charadrius vociferus) across the floodplain.  I only wanted to take a picture, yet it dashed about with abandon, taking flight in brief fits that carried it a bit further away, then a little further, and then further still.  In truth, it wasn’t avoiding me so much as busying itself with finding a meal.

This male red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) turned his beak up at me when I stood next to the tree in which he perched.  He’d glance down occasionally, but mostly he just looked away, giving me the snobbish treatment for interfering with his lady chasing.

Along the northern shore of Sunset Bay where I stood watching sailboats fight the strong winds (some of them losing the battle with overturned boats and collisions), a spotted sandpiper (Actitis macularia) dashed by me before turning around to see if I would pursue it.  Despite having the sun directly in my face as I captured this moment, I thought this peppy little bird made for a good subject.

And what is a bird post without a male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus).  Ubiquitous around these parts, he looked rather dashing as he strode through the white clover enjoying breakfast.