Come Monday
by timfythetoo

Comment by IreneM:
Timfy! You're back... that's marvellous! You're little girl has sure grown up...

Come Monday
by timfythetoo

Comment by mitalapo:
The face looked familiar, but I didn't know from where exactly. Great light.

Come Monday
by timfythetoo

Comment by Lydia:
Yay!!

YAY!!

You're actually here!

I can't believe it's been long enough for her to be so grown up!

Congratulations on your win.

Come Monday
by timfythetoo

Comment by Tiny:
I like the way this looks

Come Monday
by timfythetoo

Comment by grahamgator:
Moody, beautiful light.

Come Monday
by timfythetoo

Comment by Art Roflmao:
That looks more like Saturday. :P

Come Monday
by timfythetoo

Comment by kiwinick:
You have set the scene well. I wonder had you wated a couple of hours either way, you may have missed the high contrast from the sun??. It does work like a magnet to my eyes. But however it suits the song.


VOTE 7

Nagatamen
by timfythetoo

Comment by GeorgesBogaert:
American eagle... Well, it's a boy scout from behind...not really interesting. Nice and clean colors. The blur in the background is a little bit misplaced (stick and hands should be clear). A 6 from me

Nagatamen
by timfythetoo

Comment by LoVi:
I was curious and looked up Nagatamen. Great that they have a youth leadership program.

The Stroll
by timfythetoo

Comment by skewsme:

The calm and swaddling fog belied the strength of the storm now withdrawing its harrow from the sea cliff. Yet the ocean itself still struggled. The waves below thrashed jagged rocks, sending up spews of enthusiastic white water to intermingle with the gravid mists. The beach, dunes and bordering marshlands had hurriedly transformed into features of sea floor, barely visible in the persistent churn.

Further inland, freshwater fish clustered belly-up in hybrid tide pools, capitulating to the torrent of brack and brine which had poured into their pond, with the resulting effluent forcing meadow grasses into a seaweed-sway. Here no cricket chirps. There are no chastising calls from black-capped chickadees, nor squirrels to squawk back. Here where the tibias and fibulas of tree branches litter the muck and randomly stab the swirling snarls of winterberry and buckthorn, the only sounds are infrequent gurgles from the newly deluged gopher holes.

But this was not a bad day. Nor was it a typical one, if only for the reason that we had travelled beyond climatic conventions to a world of few weatherly habits. The growing ocean would continue to phagocytose its shores, erasing aged demarcations. Lazy hills become long sandbars. Repurposed cliffs gruffly greet the sea, their ledges on the precipice of extinction. Upon these embankments, we sashay defiantly, inhaling the damp, low sky into our lungs. The trees do not lean toward us in admiration. They cling to the edge with all their might. Like giant mangroves, they begin to equilibrate salt water in order to survive.