DO NOT PASS BY...

THE SOLITARY WAFARER by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) 

from "Gitanjali", published in 1913

In the deep shadow of the rain, 

with secret steps,

You walk, silent as night....

                                                           

eluding all watchers.

Today the morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent calls

                                                          

                          of the loud east wind....

...and a thick veil has been drawn

                                                                

                        over the ever wakeful blue sky.

The woodlands have hushed their songs,

                                                             

                          and doors are shut at every house.

You are the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street.

                                                          

oh, my only Friend,

my best Beloved,

                                                               

the gates are open in my house...

                                               Do not pass by......

                                                           

Like a Dream.....

 Photographs 2026. Last two pics from Elk Falls, posted with permission from Morgan W.

Campbell River, B.C.

TRANQUIL SOLITUDE...

REFUGE by Lew Sarett (1888-1954)

When stars ride in on the wings of dusk,

                                                Out of the silent plain,

After the fevered fret of day,

                                     I find my strength again.

Under the million friendly eyes

                               That smile...

in the lonely night...

            Close to the rolling prairie's heart,

Out where the cool long winds blow free,

                                                 I fling myself...

on the sod:

                       And there.....          

                                    in the tranquil solitude

 I find my soul...

                                         ...and God.

Photographs 2026

 Lew Sarett's poems are in the public domain. An American author, outdoorsman, and teacher . Check out some of his writing collections, including: "Many Many Moons 1920", "the Box of God 1922" and 

"Slow Smoke 1925"

THE WHITE CAT...

 I met her, 19 years ago, after we moved in. She liked to swirl her feather duster tail around my feet. So pretty. I took her picture. Often. It was how I started to seriously get into photography. Because of her. 

White Cat came every day. She was my model. 

Her housemate, I had named “the Lion”, liked to follow her. Sometimes curious. From afar. From the fence. He just stared.

When I met their family, I discovered White Cat’s name was “Cordelia”. The Lion was “Patience”. It was a great way to meet friends...

I discovered White Cat liked to sleep in the grape vines. It was closer to the birds. She liked the birds. A lot. I used to find bird heads in the garden.

She brought me the head of a bird ( such a lovely gift). I took the hint, and started photographing birds. Live ones. 

And the occasional, slithering garter snake. I praised her. Patience still never left the fence. He just stared. I praised him for being so attentive.

Seasons changed. Years toddled by. Cordelia came over to visit in snow, rain, the heat of summer. Other cats followed her here. Patience still stared from his fence.

She no longer hung out in the grape vines, but opted to sit on the steps.

Cordelia got cuddles.

Hawks hunting in the yard, swooped low to catch prey. The hawk hooked her yellow talons over bare tree branches, to sit and watch Patience. 

Cordelia concerned herself with washing her pretty paws.

Cordelia always brought her friends. Now there are different cats who come by every day. Golden Mr. Spencer still shows up . To whisper greetings. 

In latter years, Cordelia and Patience could no longer get over the fence. I’d go to them, up on the hill. Through the slats, I’d see them nuzzling together, under the trees, in the long grass.

After all those years, Patience let me reach through to stroke his golden lion’s mane. Cordelia always by his side. We had many sweet words together, those gentle souls, and I.

But at the end of the day, they always looked to home.

Then it was only Cordelia who came to share a quiet moment in the day. She was a little slower, but still so sweet and lovely.  At last, she formally retired inside, to a warm home and the family who loved her.

But for 19 years, she was my muse, an inspiration.

I can still see her, when the light is low in the winter sun, and hear myself whispering: 

 “Hello, White Cat…what beautiful adventure shall we have today?”

 Photographs 2026  In memory of Cordelia ( Jan 2026 age of 19) 

                           and Patience ( March 2024 age of 18)