Up, up in the air.

Cumulo-nymphus.

Variations on a theme.

Lost Tails.  Giving an oldie some sprucing.

Town mouse and country mouse.

For the record, I like to eat my dinner uninterrupted, too.

Night folk.

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

                                            Tennyson,  The Owl

Been told that this still doesn't count as cute.

Part 2

"Shines when the sunset shifts."

A Venusian tint to the day.

Red Rider.

Over the river and through the woods.

Bumpanalia.

Happy birthday to the Van de Babies. 

Someone's been sitting in my chair.

Sticking with a theme. 

Crooks and nannies.

There's always a free corner.

Waited hours.

The fridge has been playing The Cure's "Close to Me" for weeks now.  Baking has become something of a dancefest. 

Climbing up the walls.

And leaving scuffs.

Too coooold, mama.

Earth below us, drifting, falling.

Earthly.

After industrialization, the winged ones inhabiting the Rust Belt began to evolve--doffing their pale colors in favor of a more telluric shade. When asked how it was achieved, the King's answer was brief, "Easily dun."

The Boo Crew.

Inky, Blinky, Pinky, Clyde.

Fourth.

"Inky"

Stained fingers and smudged shirts.

And, still.

"Blinky"

In true memoriam. He wears small grey cats. Also, the bushes were full of Ennui today.

Continued.

"Clyde"
Practically line for line.

Revisiting some old friends.

"Pinky"

I never walk anywhere after noon as the only greeting I can bear to use is "Mornin' ".

Writing on the wall.

Not in the Belshazzarian sense.

No Standing.

Guttersnipe.

Esp. fond of shoestrings.

Expire.

Nothing deflates interest in a piece like the feeling that you're ghosting past lines.

No dice.

Just some words, a simple glamour spell, and a half dozen pigeon skulls.

Pre-Tolkien.

From a story called "Puss Cat Mew", but, really, who'd own up to that title?

When it rains, it pours.

Wasn't sure why the insistence that something here had to be yellow kept buzzing in my head.

I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy...

But mind the rules of the queue, lads and ladies.

Spring of things.

Post-proj. Pre-pencils. William Morris style.

Theophany.

Prophets abound in the wind today. Met a woman with coffee in her mouth and fistfuls of golden paper. Hallooed Echo rattling around on a doorstep. Skirted a ragged Old Man with a large dog but no sticks. Followed the Three Kings for a long while--pale hands and robes of green, black, and purple easy to spot. We parted at the Summit. They headed South after a watery sun, and I turned North, as I've always preferred the moon.

Haps.

To all the grannies in the house.

All Souls' Day

For the poor sods languishing in the spiritual queue.

Amongst the brambles...

...sharing the loot.

Look straight at the common disaster.

Realize what you've lost.

Light it up.

The Wick Man. For she who illuminates.

Dangling.

Never hang something from a tree you don't want much made of.

Gingerly

trying out some new pens.

Life's no fun without a good scare.

Set to Elfman's Serenada Schizophrena.

Mooning about.

The Man in the Moon came down too soon

and asked his way to Norwich.

They sent him south and he burnt his mouth

By eating cold pease-porridge.

English nursery rhyme

Up.

Skirts tucked under, shoelaces wound about, hat on firmly, and a good besom in hand.

In Threes.

Nibbins

"Well, we've time while they're at this song: it has nine times nine verses; but you ought to stay for some more Whoo-hoos. Doesn't it give you the feel of the moon in the tree-tops: 'Whoo-hoo-hoo, says the hook-eared owl'? Come along quietly."

The Midnight Folk, John Masefield

Our veins is thin.

Last of the waterbabies for a while.

Boat, 2

Yar.

Take a good, hard look.

A weekend of wind and water.

Scissor happy.

Infinite possibilities for less shit.

Spooky Old Tree

One with a light.

One with a stick.

One with a rope.

Entering Moriae territory. It was all I could do to not drop three, huddled figures under those boughs.

And a bit with a dog.

The theatre. Doodlings and doings-on.

Ship to Shore

Belay that.

In the hedges.

A swarm of bees in May

Is worth a bale of hay.

A swarm of bees in June

Is worth a silver spoon.

A swarm of bees in July

Isn't worth a fly.

May all your swarms prove worthy.