Friday, March 23, 2018. Three Poems by Victoria Crawford. Shaking her sky blue skirts,. Free dinner, strutting,. And spreads his tail for. Next season will see young pigeons. Two doves, neat checkered. Necks, lurk on the fringes. Nest waits in a broad-leafed. Old tree, no eggs yet. A breeze quivers heavy seeded.

Where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry. April 2, 2018 9 Comments. April 1, 2018 4 Comments. March 31, 2018 2 Comments. March 30, 2018 9 Comments. March 29, 2018 11 Comments. March 28, 2018 7 Comments. March 27, 2018 4 Comments. Join 22,149 other followers.

This is Huangshan which I have never been and never been interested. I replicated one painting and now I really want to visit this place. I think this is the amazing part of drawing. Always I fall in love with the object, and drawing itself. It took about 3 hours to draw this. I think I need to draw faster. But the joy of drawing is much more worthy.

Blurred by ice-then-snow-now, grass and tree and house and bay are rendered in the softest greys. Meteoric, a crow as black as space lands on a tailwind. Then another; black feathers plump and shudder off the snow. They strut like they own the place. Which today, they do. So now, a ghostly hulk, their happy place is falling to ruin.

Short Fiction from the Venturous Life. I had just bitten into the soft, almost bitter, chocolate when I heard the first crack. Somehow, that truffle melting on my tongue gave me a quiet strength, and I moved into a state of calm, as I realized what those sounds were. I wanted to run from them. The police in their black gear looked frightening and I wanted to run from them, but I let them to lead me to a room where a medic shone a light in my eyes.