Camping this weekend was good. Perhaps it wasn't camping--we stayed in a cabin--let's call it primitive living. Heat (much needed) from a wood-burning stove and no electricity. We hiked, I don't know, maybe six-seven miles through the Waterloo Recreation Area, sharing the trail with horses. But perhaps the best, though fleeting, moment was to hear early in the morning the croaking bugle of these flying over. They are as large as blue herons but don't resemble pteradactyls flying (at least that's how I picture herons). While their call is not beautiful in the conventional sense, beauty ain't always pretty, they match the sensuous and graceful undulations of the "Ooh, dat ugly" octopus. It beats the sound of the internal combustion engine any day of the millenium.
A humble blog of tragic proportions
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