Yesterday, Pam and I headed out to Redwood Creek. Lots of alder, fir, spruce, and redwood. There’s more water flowing in Redwood Creek than Mad River. OK, weren’t rivers supposed to be larger than creeks?
“Murmuring out of its myriad leaves,
Down from its lofty top, rising two hundred feet high,
Out of its stalwart trunk and limbs—out of its foot-thick bark,
That chant of the seasons and time—chant, not of the past only, but the future.”
— Walt Whitman
This bike was alongside docked houseboats at the Bassin de l’Arsenal near the Seine south of Bastille. It looked forlorn with one flat tire and the other missing.
Playing with silhouettes and clouds.