The underside of a portico on a West 46th Street brownstone, layers of paint and rust and wear over ornate carvings.
I am a native in this world And think in it as a native thinks
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Blog Archive
-
▼
2013
(410)
-
▼
June
(40)
- Speaking of the Wild Bird Fund
- Sunday bird blogging
- Saturday reflections
- For a sense of scale
- Urban poetry
- Crosstown
- Sunday bird blogging
- Saturday reflections
- Also
- Adventures in spam
- Urban poetry
- My city by the bay
- One more
- Wild grasses
- A little squirrelly
- Kite runners
- Sunday bird blogging
- Some places just leave a chocolate on your pillow
- Another view from the bridge
- Saturday reflections
- California hills
- Bella sur la plage
- Muir Beach
- Made it
- The waiting is the hardest part
- Urban poetry
- I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille
- And we have a winner
- Starlings
- More babies
- Feeding time
- Free at last, free at last!
- Sunday bird blogging
- 01001011 is for Kathleen
- Saturday reflections
- Pale blue dot
- Urban poetry
- Sunday bird blogging
- Language report
- Saturday reflections
-
▼
June
(40)
No comments:
Post a Comment