The Authority

This picture made me think of His Dark Materials. Philip Pullman's amazing fantasy trilogy.

Surfin' Safari

Sitting at my desk.
Long daze at the office.
Thinking about the beach.

Have a great weekend.

Dogapalooza

Coming soon... Not dog photos.

The Chase

In hot pursuit.

Contrary to appearances, she really does seem to have a fun time, and I haven't even posted some of the scariest pictures.

Dancing Dog

Pepper Prancing

Finally thought to take the camera to the dogpark yesterday evening. Got some great action shots of Pepper playing with assorted canine compatriots.

More to follow.

Wilder Ranch

Ranch house located at Wilder Ranch State Park

Four Flowers

UC Santa Cruz Arboretum

Sorry for the sporadic posting of late. Paying work consumes my person.

Pigeon Point Lighthouse

Vernal Falls Trail

Yosemite National Park

Falls

Uvas Canyon

Into the Narrows

Zion National Park, Utah

Friday Dogblogging

Well Kevin Drum already took Friday catblogging.

I'll be off from work next week, so blogging may be sporadic at best, but we'll be back full time on the 11^th.

Have a Safe and Sane 4^th of July.

The Window

Another Detail from Mission San Juan Bautista

The Door

Mission San Juan Bautista

The Grindstone

The Village Blacksmith

I couldn't find a sound clip of this, but like many of my generation, one of my first introductions to classical poetry came from Bullwinkle's Corner. In lieu of that here is the text, you'll have to provide the dulcet tones of Bullwinkle J. Moose.

The Village Blacksmith
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow -

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Tools of a Trade

Looking Back

Another View from Parkway Lake, looking towards Coyote Creek.

Parkway Lake

The Blank Club