|A male blue dasher perches on a twig.|
There's a noisy thundershower moving through. One of those on-off-on storms which creeps in from the west, low and ominously dark, muttering and growling dire threats as it approached. The front was a brief wall of rushing wind. And the initial roaring downpour, as usual, tried to make you think it just might wash the place away—only to quickly stop, then restart, stop again, start, and so on, a dozen times, gradually taking longer pauses and delivering subsequently lighter rains.
I've been mostly working at the desk, with a couple of forays earlier to coax Moon-the-Dog out to do her business. My old pooch pulled a shoulder muscle the other morning getting up from her bed and has been having real problems moving around since. I'm giving her pain pills, plus she's been taking joint supplements for years. Still, she's also 15 years old and…well, I'm worried.
One of the things I've been doing is editing through some of the images I made the same day and place as the wild rose shot which accompanied the previous post. The small, cattail-fringed pond is tucked away out of sight from the road in the back of an old field. It's one of my favorite haunts for stalking dragonflies. I'll try to not overdo using the bug images I collect, but they're just so colorful—
Hey, I will try.
• • •
(And please do let me know about this revised layout. Still too big a font? Too small? Too whatever? I'm looking for input.)