Muse Swings in "Burn Notice" albeit slanty sunglasses is posing here. Cousin Diane Candela is leaning (not such a good idea) on the side of this lovely covered bridge. The picture taker is our host for the week, Madelyn LeMay.
As I was preparing my post for the Poetry Bus I realized these pictures are so freakin' old I might as well blend them in with my Sepia Saturday post.
Our Poetry Bus assignment per this week's host, Karen of Keeping Secrets:
(1) a time you had to choose between two clearly divergent paths; (2) a time you were called to walk a path you didn't choose for yourself; or (3) a time you refused to travel the path you were called to follow. If these won't work for you, write anything about a choice you made. Drop me a note here when your poem is ready, and I'll link on the sidebar.
In the words of that great word person Yogi Berra, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
This assignment brought to mind my 1967 trip to Shelburne Falls (I was 22, okay? Fine!),
and a literal path of discovery - with pictures to boot!
Beyond the creaky covered bridge
that still echoes of dank footfalls in my mind
confetti leaves crackle
beneath my feet
eyes rise to cornflower blue jays
that fly like bits of
sky between arched branches
warmth from filtered sun mosaics play
upon my face and
just here I find a tiny trace that cuts
between the trees
no city curbs
white lines or flashing signs
say I may or may not walk here
so I do
follow the mossy winding path
hear mixed octaves of a tiny brook and bend
to the cold bright skittering surface
city fingers touch
and taste sweet water
that runs free
City Girl meets country water- free of pipes, free of chemicals and free of charge - Shelburne Falls
An aMUSEing City Girl with "Twiggy" hairstyle in fetching Pendelton Pea Coat, cable-knit fisherman's sweater, cranberry wool slacks and penny loafers - sans pennies - arrives in Shelburne Falls, MA, to eat more oysters and fried clams than she has ever seen in one place before. She discovers delicious Indian Pudding and finds out that cranberries don't grow in bags.
Her travels take her to a Vermont Maple Sugar farm, the Atlantic Ocean, The House of the Seven Gables, Plymouth Rock , the artist colony of Newport, the hairpin curves of the Mohawk trail and discovery trips into the woods and antique shops of the countryside.
Moments after the above picture is taken two German shephards come running and barking up the hill. City Girl's choice of remaining as stock still as an urban fire hydrant work. The dogs find her to be far too stylish and boring. After a few sniffs of Faberege's Tigress eau de cologne they dash off to find something far more interesting to harass. Like a cow.
Thanks for stopping by my two-fer post!
My Indian Pudding recipe is HERE,
More Sepia Saturday can be found HERE
and the Poetry Bus stop is HERE
and don't forget to buy cranberries for turkey day! They grow in a bog - not a bag.