It was such a lovely Floridian spring day. The sun angle was not so high just yet as to instantly sear the flesh from one's face (though facial flesh
removal is probably not a bad idea in my case), nor was the humidity so dense as to cause what we Floridians refer to as "open-air drowning" (which
is why we have the lowest per capita number of asthmatics in the nation).
My lumbago was not bothering me this afternoon, and my prostate was feeling downright spiffy, so I decided a visit to the duck pond was in order.
The following photos chronicle my adventures, both to the duck pond and to a few other local parks (none of which have cruisy homosexual restrooms, so the day was completely wholesome in every respect, sans foot-tapping).
The images range from just OK to pretty good to really good to very, very nice to amazing to astonishing and all the way to extraordinarily incredible. You be the judge.
Magdalyn and Josephus enjoy a cool, refreshing drink. Note the water droplets, caught in freeze-frame glory. The ducks can certainly drink the water in the pond, but it's filled with fish and bird and turtle piss, shit and semen, not to mention assorted algae, bacteria, viruses and possibly some mutated prions as well. So naturally they prefer a brief trek over to the shiny roasting pans that people set out for them near the handy-dandy spigot.
Vern. It's not his fault that he's ugly. The females of his species find his lumpy orange beak-flesh to be quite appealing. Who the fuck are we to judge?
Griselda. She's pissed. I am not sure why. I pressed for an explanation, but she said nothing.
Marcus, Phoebe and Lorraine. They might be swans. Or maybe not. I can't be sure. I looked on the internet, which is very large and sometimes cumbersome to deal with, but they don't seem to match the descriptions or photos of any other North American swans. They certainly aren't geese, and I don't believe them to be ducks, either. I'm going to say they are swans. Yes, definitely swans. Perhaps.
For sure. They're swans. OK, maybe not. What do you think? Would anyone care to find out if they are swans or not? Probably not -- you are notoriously lazy people.
Peter, Alexis, Jerry and Roger. "Oh, yeah... we're doing it! We're walking in a line!"
Tighten up that formation, guys! Hup, two, three, four...
"Psst! Don't tell Mom just yet, but I think I might be gay."
Swimming practice.
They were doing some lovely synchronized diving just moments earlier, but I was picking my nose and I missed a great photo opportunity.
Clarice, the proud Momma, surveys her progeny. (Daddy has run off to Martinique with that ibis whore.)
Momma Clarice takes a dip. Clarice is a "tufted duck." The internet confirmed that for me, but I could have just as easily guessed or made it up and still been right. (Note the tuft, hence the name.)
"I love you, Mommy!"
Each tiny flower was about as big as a dime.
They were growing all nestled at the base of some pampas grass. The curlicues appear to be what happens to the pampas grass foliage as they wither, or perhaps after they are trimmed during the winter months. This was something that could have been easily overlooked, but I stumbled upon them and was mesmerized by the scene.
I really, really, really liked these. A lot.
We now take our leave of the duck pond and head over to a small park with a few nature trails. Most of the "nature" here was comprised of squirrels, but they were busy and I didn't photograph them. I did like the look of the sunlight filtering through the palmetto leaves, though. Take it or leave it.
It's some weed. I liked it. If you don't, fuck you.
Peering through a fallen log at ground level. The holes are suggestive of something, but I'm not going to sully the glory of nature with perverted suppositions. You can, though.
Persephone. She seemed agitated at first, what with this big, fat, hairy queer coming at her with a deep, dark lens, but eventually she settled down.
Perching and posing proudly on a post.
Common monarch. His name is Phil.
Note the slightly faded, gently scratched, soon-to-be tattered wings. Phil has clearly reached the end of his short lifespan. Probably he's going to die very soon. He might be dead already.
Requiem for Phil. Bye, Phil. Rot in peace, unless Persephone eats your tiny orange corpse. Ah, the circle of life!
Max. Glorious! This is a swallowtail butterfly, but I don't know which kind of swallowtail. Apparently, from what the internet tells me, there are 77, 682 varieties of butterflies and they don't have pictures of all of them. Of the 77, 682 types of butterflies, approximately one-third of those are swallowtails. OK, I'm just making that up. But there sure are a lot of them and I just don't have the time to find out exactly what kind this one is. Nor do I care. Nor do you. (Note: Max is missing one of his tear-drop wing tails -- a tragic pupating accident, I'm guessing.)
Max was doing that slow-motion, gentle leaf-sitting fluttering thing that butterflies do. You know... open the wings, close the wings, etc. This is the "closed" position.
Troy, a dragonfly! I've been trying for about a year and a half to get a good, close-up image of a dragonfly. Amazingly, I was about four feet away and using just the zoom, not a macro setting. I was holding Maggie's leash in one hand and the camera in the other.
Troy does a hand-stand, mugging for the camera.
Showing off his lacy wings.
The dragonfly photos are dedicated to PunkinHeadToo. I promised her I'd do it, and I delivered. I still want better pics, but I'm highly pleased with these.
One of these days I'm going to go to the zoo.
My lumbago was not bothering me this afternoon, and my prostate was feeling downright spiffy, so I decided a visit to the duck pond was in order.
The following photos chronicle my adventures, both to the duck pond and to a few other local parks (none of which have cruisy homosexual restrooms, so the day was completely wholesome in every respect, sans foot-tapping).
The images range from just OK to pretty good to really good to very, very nice to amazing to astonishing and all the way to extraordinarily incredible. You be the judge.
Magdalyn and Josephus enjoy a cool, refreshing drink. Note the water droplets, caught in freeze-frame glory. The ducks can certainly drink the water in the pond, but it's filled with fish and bird and turtle piss, shit and semen, not to mention assorted algae, bacteria, viruses and possibly some mutated prions as well. So naturally they prefer a brief trek over to the shiny roasting pans that people set out for them near the handy-dandy spigot.
Vern. It's not his fault that he's ugly. The females of his species find his lumpy orange beak-flesh to be quite appealing. Who the fuck are we to judge?
Griselda. She's pissed. I am not sure why. I pressed for an explanation, but she said nothing.
Marcus, Phoebe and Lorraine. They might be swans. Or maybe not. I can't be sure. I looked on the internet, which is very large and sometimes cumbersome to deal with, but they don't seem to match the descriptions or photos of any other North American swans. They certainly aren't geese, and I don't believe them to be ducks, either. I'm going to say they are swans. Yes, definitely swans. Perhaps.
For sure. They're swans. OK, maybe not. What do you think? Would anyone care to find out if they are swans or not? Probably not -- you are notoriously lazy people.
Peter, Alexis, Jerry and Roger. "Oh, yeah... we're doing it! We're walking in a line!"
Tighten up that formation, guys! Hup, two, three, four...
"Psst! Don't tell Mom just yet, but I think I might be gay."
Swimming practice.
They were doing some lovely synchronized diving just moments earlier, but I was picking my nose and I missed a great photo opportunity.
Clarice, the proud Momma, surveys her progeny. (Daddy has run off to Martinique with that ibis whore.)
Momma Clarice takes a dip. Clarice is a "tufted duck." The internet confirmed that for me, but I could have just as easily guessed or made it up and still been right. (Note the tuft, hence the name.)
"I love you, Mommy!"
Each tiny flower was about as big as a dime.
They were growing all nestled at the base of some pampas grass. The curlicues appear to be what happens to the pampas grass foliage as they wither, or perhaps after they are trimmed during the winter months. This was something that could have been easily overlooked, but I stumbled upon them and was mesmerized by the scene.
I really, really, really liked these. A lot.
We now take our leave of the duck pond and head over to a small park with a few nature trails. Most of the "nature" here was comprised of squirrels, but they were busy and I didn't photograph them. I did like the look of the sunlight filtering through the palmetto leaves, though. Take it or leave it.
It's some weed. I liked it. If you don't, fuck you.
Peering through a fallen log at ground level. The holes are suggestive of something, but I'm not going to sully the glory of nature with perverted suppositions. You can, though.
Persephone. She seemed agitated at first, what with this big, fat, hairy queer coming at her with a deep, dark lens, but eventually she settled down.
Perching and posing proudly on a post.
Common monarch. His name is Phil.
Note the slightly faded, gently scratched, soon-to-be tattered wings. Phil has clearly reached the end of his short lifespan. Probably he's going to die very soon. He might be dead already.
Requiem for Phil. Bye, Phil. Rot in peace, unless Persephone eats your tiny orange corpse. Ah, the circle of life!
Max. Glorious! This is a swallowtail butterfly, but I don't know which kind of swallowtail. Apparently, from what the internet tells me, there are 77, 682 varieties of butterflies and they don't have pictures of all of them. Of the 77, 682 types of butterflies, approximately one-third of those are swallowtails. OK, I'm just making that up. But there sure are a lot of them and I just don't have the time to find out exactly what kind this one is. Nor do I care. Nor do you. (Note: Max is missing one of his tear-drop wing tails -- a tragic pupating accident, I'm guessing.)
Max was doing that slow-motion, gentle leaf-sitting fluttering thing that butterflies do. You know... open the wings, close the wings, etc. This is the "closed" position.
Troy, a dragonfly! I've been trying for about a year and a half to get a good, close-up image of a dragonfly. Amazingly, I was about four feet away and using just the zoom, not a macro setting. I was holding Maggie's leash in one hand and the camera in the other.
Troy does a hand-stand, mugging for the camera.
Showing off his lacy wings.
The dragonfly photos are dedicated to PunkinHeadToo. I promised her I'd do it, and I delivered. I still want better pics, but I'm highly pleased with these.
One of these days I'm going to go to the zoo.
