an old writer and his words

  • CHANGES

    The finches are strugglingthis morning, searching the lawnfor the odd clover seed that’s yet to be reduced to dust by a summerwhere the rain has paintedour world with a palette of parchment, ochre, leaving uswandering an increasingly sepia world.  We know that the rains will come again, that nature’s green will return, however briefly, beforewinter encases us all in…

    Lou Faber

  • DEEP WITHIN

    The finches sweep from bush to feeder in a gentle inverted parabola appear head high with a pride reserved for those who fly. The chain link fence is for them no barrier but a honeycomb of perches, full on a warm February afternoon, their song threatening to silence the heart of winter.

    Lou Faber

  • FOR THE BIRDS

    She wants to know why the oriole we sometimes see in the park never visits our backyard feeder. I remind her that she isn’t usually here, only visits occasionally, but she says that I would have told her if I saw one. She says I got excited when I saw the one in the park…

    Lou Faber