By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have passed,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep impressed
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,
Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!
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Thursday wasn't as rainy as Wednesday -- it was barely dripping when we went out to walk, and the eagles were flying back and forth between our neighborhood and Idylwood Park, finally settling in the tree with the nest. I had a bunch of work to get done before we walked, and I talked to my usual Thursday night chat group.
We watched the new episode of Ghosts (I don't miss the one who got sucked off this season) and we're on to the fourth season of All Creatures Great and Small (I do miss Tristan). Here are the otters we saw last weekend when the baby raccoons annoyed them into showing their faces, both chasing raccoons and swimming off afterward:
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