nature
The Science and Nature of Wanderlust, tourism, landmarks for nature buffs and more.
My Golden Buzzer
All the words are jumbled in my mind ready to be made into some kind of sense. Funny, now that I think of it last night everything seemed so clear and each word flowed, as if by magic from my mind through my fingertips, effortlessly, as if I were looking through someone elses' eyes. That best version of myself, the storyteller and the author combined.
By Wolf Spirit5 years ago in Wander
An Unexpected Encounter
Sunbeams streamed through the window, a subtle breeze with displaying hints of sweet onion and sounds of song birds returning back home after a long, brutally chilling Pennsylvania Winter. Olivia rubbed her eyes awake as she stretched, waking her sleepy muscles out of stupor. Another glorious day to be alive, she thought to herself. Melody, her calico cat sprawled in a similar stretch, letting out a long yawn with claws fully extended.
By Holly Cook5 years ago in Wander
Where In The World Did That Come From
Where In The World Did That Come From I am a tourist, of the variety that becomes totally immersed in my travels. Along the way, I never know where a discovery will lead me, or who I will meet along the way. My usual MO, is to envelop myself in the fauna and flora, and history of the attraction I am visiting. When all is said and done, I will have collected dozens of pamphlets, research information, photographs and plenty of knickknacks, nap sacks, funny hats and door mats. But I was looking for the undiscovered sliver of information that could wow my friends.
By Zel Harrison5 years ago in Wander
Nature's Thorn
Living close to to a mountainside, I was always exposed to nature. Beautiful rolling hills, densely packed with brush and trees; Snaked with long, well-trodden trails. The air is crisp and refreshing, especially in the winter months. Typically children with this sort of upbringing should feel an unburdened connection to nature, punctuated by a particular flower or spot within this natural domain. Of course, this is not the case, as seen with the use of “typically” at the beginning of this paragraph.
By Griffen Helm5 years ago in Wander
The Illusive Pink Flannel Flower
In December 2019, Australia was on fire. My little hometown of Lithgow NSW is situated at the base of the Blue Mountains, nestled in the valley. Anywhere you stand in town, you are greeted with the view of a mountain in the distance. We are surrounded and it's a lovely, tranquil aspect. Until it burns.
By Jessie Waddell5 years ago in Wander
The trail to slime
The pandemic lockdown in March 2020 meant no no more group hikes with my hiking club . There was nowhere to go except outside, so I armed myself with trail maps and a compass to start hiking solo. Without companions to chat with on the trail , my hike became a time of leisurely exploration and mediation . There was ample time to slow down and observe the textures of tree bark, the play of light on the budding trees and the forest floor.
By Wendy Edson5 years ago in Wander
Little Red Finch
She sat cross-legged on the grass, her brush caught in the air, eyeing her canvas. Something was wrong. She was trying to paint the scene in front of her, a large grass field with people sprawled like cats, enjoying the warm sun and fragrant spring air. So far she had been focusing on the lovers, capturing the moments they whispered sweet nothings into each other’s ears, or when one would share a joke and then both would laugh quietly - as if in a cathedral. She was also trying to snatch the dancing of the trees that moved on the perimeter. They swayed and creaked and smelled of earth and growth and life. She watched as one seemingly bent and whispered to the other, much as the lovers beneath were doing. Yes, this had all been captured and released onto her canvas, yet still, something was wrong. While thinking a dart of color caught her eye. A child in a red shirt, whizzing across the field after a soccer ball. The moment he caught the ball he would kick it again in another direction, using all the force his little body could muster. And then he'd run. No, not run, fly. He reminded her of an excitable red finch, stretching its crunched-up wings in the first warm days of spring. He was so lovingly wild, so chaotic. He ran through the lovers and under the trees, all of them chasing him with a disapproving gaze. But he kept flying, the soccer ball leading him. Even when he stumbled and fell – which was multiple times – he never seemed to touch the ground. As the Artist watched, little did she notice that the flowers and the bees and the spiders and the birds and blooms all watched too. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the flying boy, and if you could somehow see him amidst all his dashing you would realize that he knew he was being watched, and a little grin pulled at the apples of his cheeks. But being watched was only a small part of his job, his bigger purpose was much more important. So, on and on and on he went, kicking and smiling and flying and enjoying the sunshine and the dewdrops and the eyes of creatures all around. He would never admit it to Fall or Summer, but he quite liked the attention. He noted the Artist, and how she seemed to be watching him the closest. He knew he had come just in time to ruin her picture and was surprised to see no anger in her eyes, feel no animosity in her chest. No, she felt the most joyful of all, besides the bees. She felt spring. Felt such joy at seeing this little finch stretch his wings, at seeing the exuberance of life. She knew he was who she had been waiting for, and that the painting would always be wrong without this little ball of life. Recklessly, childishly, she dipped her fingers into the brightest red on her pallet and mimicked the boy’s movements on the field with her fingers, tracing as he went this way and that. Around the lovers, between the trees, into the sky, and on the sun. Yes look, he was flying away, another little red finch at his side. Her fingers trailed off the canvas as she realized the little finch was gone. But as she looked around the sun shined a little warmer, the flowers stood a little taller, and the trees breathed a little deeper. Spring had truly sprung, thanks to the little boy who stretched his wings.
By Emma Baker5 years ago in Wander
