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Arc of Montgomery abruptly shutting down
MONTGOMERY, Ala. (WSFA) – The Arc of Montgomery, a local chapter of the Arc of Alabama, is closing…
#NewsBeep #News #US #USA #UnitedStates #UnitedStatesOfAmerica #Mentalhealth #ADMH #Alabama #AlabamaDepartmentofMentalHealth #Arc #ArcofAlabama #ArcofMontgomery #ExecutiveDirectorTimCooper #grouphomes #Health #MentalHealth #Montgomery #WFSA #WSFA
https://www.newsbeep.com/us/625333/ -
@wsslmn Of Hilversum verovert #Wijdemeren, bevolking vlucht, dan volop plaats voor asielzoekers.
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Heaven of Boot Hill: A brief history of the end of Sheriff Henry Plummer—Bannock, Montana (1864)
#Wss366 Boot #HistoricalFiction
“Lies, lies, lies,” Sheriff Plummer yelled as the Vigilance Committee of Alder Gulch dragged him from his home. His tone was less than manly for a person of his stature. Coatless, breath steaming in the cold winter air, he had lost all his dignity.
“We caught some of them vermin you call friends. They told us all about you before we hung um,” a freight driver called from the crowd.
“You elected me to protect you. That’s what I’ve been doing.”
The hardworking folk of Bannock met his statement with scorn and jeers. Long plagued by bandits, they had no sympathy for an incompetent or corrupt sheriff. At this point, it didn’t matter which; someone would pay.
Horsehair Ned appeared behind Plummer, holding up a heavy bar of bullion. “Behind his stove. A whole heap of them, pretty as you please.”
If the sheriff had anything more to say, the catcalls drowned it. Only the minister and the blacksmith kept the crowd from tearing the captured man limb from limb: the minister appealing to their Christian morality, and the other to their desire not to have their heads crushed.
The uproar dimmed only when they reached the northern road where the miners held his deputies—Buck Stinson and Ned Ray—captive. The shadow of the gallows at the end of the road was having its effect.
Still, the crowd only grew larger as they progressed. Neither the gallows nor the blistering cold of Montana in January could keep them from making the long trek to the execution grounds.
“What ya looking at?” the district judge asked, noticing Plummer looking up the steep hill to the east. “Heaven or Boot Hill. Yea be going to one, sure as shooting, and not the tother.”
“What about a trial?” the man asked, tearing his eyes away from the slope.
“Don’t need one,” the judge said. “But if it makes you feel better, I hereby pronounce you, Henry Plummer, guilty.”
The truth lies within his grave, now lost in the dust.
#Western #WesternHistory #Bannock #SheriffHenryPlummer #Outlaws #TootFic #MicroFiction #NMFic
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Heaven of Boot Hill: A brief history of the end of Sheriff Henry Plummer—Bannock, Montana (1864)
#Wss366 Boot #HistoricalFiction
“Lies, lies, lies,” Sheriff Plummer yelled as the Vigilance Committee of Alder Gulch dragged him from his home. His tone was less than manly for a person of his stature. Coatless, breath steaming in the cold winter air, he had lost all his dignity.
“We caught some of them vermin you call friends. They told us all about you before we hung um,” a freight driver called from the crowd.
“You elected me to protect you. That’s what I’ve been doing.”
The hardworking folk of Bannock met his statement with scorn and jeers. Long plagued by bandits, they had no sympathy for an incompetent or corrupt sheriff. At this point, it didn’t matter which; someone would pay.
Horsehair Ned appeared behind Plummer, holding up a heavy bar of bullion. “Behind his stove. A whole heap of them, pretty as you please.”
If the sheriff had anything more to say, the catcalls drowned it. Only the minister and the blacksmith kept the crowd from tearing the captured man limb from limb: the minister appealing to their Christian morality, and the other to their desire not to have their heads crushed.
The uproar dimmed only when they reached the northern road where the miners held his deputies—Buck Stinson and Ned Ray—captive. The shadow of the gallows at the end of the road was having its effect.
Still, the crowd only grew larger as they progressed. Neither the gallows nor the blistering cold of Montana in January could keep them from making the long trek to the execution grounds.
“What ya looking at?” the district judge asked, noticing Plummer looking up the steep hill to the east. “Heaven or Boot Hill. Yea be going to one, sure as shooting, and not the tother.”
“What about a trial?” the man asked, tearing his eyes away from the slope.
“Don’t need one,” the judge said. “But if it makes you feel better, I hereby pronounce you, Henry Plummer, guilty.”
The truth lies within his grave, now lost in the dust.
#Western #WesternHistory #Bannock #SheriffHenryPlummer #Outlaws #TootFic #MicroFiction #NMFic
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Heaven of Boot Hill: A brief history of the end of Sheriff Henry Plummer—Bannock, Montana (1864)
#Wss366 Boot #HistoricalFiction
“Lies, lies, lies,” Sheriff Plummer yelled as the Vigilance Committee of Alder Gulch dragged him from his home. His tone was less than manly for a person of his stature. Coatless, breath steaming in the cold winter air, he had lost all his dignity.
“We caught some of them vermin you call friends. They told us all about you before we hung um,” a freight driver called from the crowd.
“You elected me to protect you. That’s what I’ve been doing.”
The hardworking folk of Bannock met his statement with scorn and jeers. Long plagued by bandits, they had no sympathy for an incompetent or corrupt sheriff. At this point, it didn’t matter which; someone would pay.
Horsehair Ned appeared behind Plummer, holding up a heavy bar of bullion. “Behind his stove. A whole heap of them, pretty as you please.”
If the sheriff had anything more to say, the catcalls drowned it. Only the minister and the blacksmith kept the crowd from tearing the captured man limb from limb: the minister appealing to their Christian morality, and the other to their desire not to have their heads crushed.
The uproar dimmed only when they reached the northern road where the miners held his deputies—Buck Stinson and Ned Ray—captive. The shadow of the gallows at the end of the road was having its effect.
Still, the crowd only grew larger as they progressed. Neither the gallows nor the blistering cold of Montana in January could keep them from making the long trek to the execution grounds.
“What ya looking at?” the district judge asked, noticing Plummer looking up the steep hill to the east. “Heaven or Boot Hill. Yea be going to one, sure as shooting, and not the tother.”
“What about a trial?” the man asked, tearing his eyes away from the slope.
“Don’t need one,” the judge said. “But if it makes you feel better, I hereby pronounce you, Henry Plummer, guilty.”
The truth lies within his grave, now lost in the dust.
#Western #WesternHistory #Bannock #SheriffHenryPlummer #Outlaws #TootFic #MicroFiction #NMFic
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Heaven of Boot Hill: A brief history of the end of Sheriff Henry Plummer—Bannock, Montana (1864)
#Wss366 Boot #HistoricalFiction
“Lies, lies, lies,” Sheriff Plummer yelled as the Vigilance Committee of Alder Gulch dragged him from his home. His tone was less than manly for a person of his stature. Coatless, breath steaming in the cold winter air, he had lost all his dignity.
“We caught some of them vermin you call friends. They told us all about you before we hung um,” a freight driver called from the crowd.
“You elected me to protect you. That’s what I’ve been doing.”
The hardworking folk of Bannock met his statement with scorn and jeers. Long plagued by bandits, they had no sympathy for an incompetent or corrupt sheriff. At this point, it didn’t matter which; someone would pay.
Horsehair Ned appeared behind Plummer, holding up a heavy bar of bullion. “Behind his stove. A whole heap of them, pretty as you please.”
If the sheriff had anything more to say, the catcalls drowned it. Only the minister and the blacksmith kept the crowd from tearing the captured man limb from limb: the minister appealing to their Christian morality, and the other to their desire not to have their heads crushed.
The uproar dimmed only when they reached the northern road where the miners held his deputies—Buck Stinson and Ned Ray—captive. The shadow of the gallows at the end of the road was having its effect.
Still, the crowd only grew larger as they progressed. Neither the gallows nor the blistering cold of Montana in January could keep them from making the long trek to the execution grounds.
“What ya looking at?” the district judge asked, noticing Plummer looking up the steep hill to the east. “Heaven or Boot Hill. Yea be going to one, sure as shooting, and not the tother.”
“What about a trial?” the man asked, tearing his eyes away from the slope.
“Don’t need one,” the judge said. “But if it makes you feel better, I hereby pronounce you, Henry Plummer, guilty.”
The truth lies within his grave, now lost in the dust.
#Western #WesternHistory #Bannock #SheriffHenryPlummer #Outlaws #TootFic #MicroFiction #NMFic
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Mating of the Deer and Fox (Part 2: Fox)
Soon, he had lit a fire and started roasting a hare over it. Wrapped in wet leaves and buried under the coals, the mushrooms cooked with wild onions. When they were done, they ate the fare seasoned with salt from a #stash in his pack. Besides a simple compliment and equally simple acknowledgment, they ate in silence—he out of habit, and she out of deference.
Food finished, the Shaw broke the silence. “I’ll show you the way to your village tomorrow. You may keep my cloak tonight; it will be cold.”
“Omnit thanks you. But aren’t you afraid my kin will find and kill you?”
“Aren’t you afraid of being alone in the #wilderness with an oathless Shaw? And to answer your question, no. I will have faded away long before they arrive. Your people make a rutting bear sound quiet.”
“Oh,” she said, silent for a moment. “I’m not afraid of being alone with you anymore. You’re the gentlest man I’ve ever met.”
“Your husband? Father? Brothers?”
“Brutes. They brought us here to settle. I’ve seen what they do to the Shaws they capture. They say it’s their just desserts. As for me, I must do as I am told.”
The man pulled a sour face but didn’t comment.
“It will be cold tonight, and you’ve given me your cloak. I could share it with you.” The woman’s voice was soft again, and her eyes were cast down.
“Your husband?” he asked.
“Arranged.” Her voice was barely audible. “A rutting bear.” Then, looking up, she bit her lip and added in a rush, “For once I’d like to know what it’s like to be with someone gentle.”
When the night fell silent and the woman slept, the Shaw looked up at the stars, tracing Sister Canin among them. He wondered whether his mother’s words were true. Did Canin’s blood run through his veins, however diluted it had become over the ages?
He touched the fox’s tail braided in his hair and thought, “If not literally, then figuratively.”
Rolling over, he traced the flank of the “Deer” woman next to him. He thought sadly, “The deer and fox were not meant to mate. I hope she will be okay. And if the seed takes root, I wish the same for it.”
Then he too drifted off.
They ate in silence the next morning, he from habit, and she lost in memory. When they reached the trail to her village, he bid her stay a moment.
He took a shawl from his pack and said, “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have to give you.”
“But…” she began, but he silenced her with a finger.
“The nameless do not need such things. Keep it and remember that there are gentle things in the world. She was gentle, and so are you.” Before she could protest further, he turned and disappeared.
Note 1: #FanFiction for a yet-to-be-published book, “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague.
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Mating of the Deer and Fox (Part 2: Fox)
Soon, he had lit a fire and started roasting a hare over it. Wrapped in wet leaves and buried under the coals, the mushrooms cooked with wild onions. When they were done, they ate the fare seasoned with salt from a #stash in his pack. Besides a simple compliment and equally simple acknowledgment, they ate in silence—he out of habit, and she out of deference.
Food finished, the Shaw broke the silence. “I’ll show you the way to your village tomorrow. You may keep my cloak tonight; it will be cold.”
“Omnit thanks you. But aren’t you afraid my kin will find and kill you?”
“Aren’t you afraid of being alone in the #wilderness with an oathless Shaw? And to answer your question, no. I will have faded away long before they arrive. Your people make a rutting bear sound quiet.”
“Oh,” she said, silent for a moment. “I’m not afraid of being alone with you anymore. You’re the gentlest man I’ve ever met.”
“Your husband? Father? Brothers?”
“Brutes. They brought us here to settle. I’ve seen what they do to the Shaws they capture. They say it’s their just desserts. As for me, I must do as I am told.”
The man pulled a sour face but didn’t comment.
“It will be cold tonight, and you’ve given me your cloak. I could share it with you.” The woman’s voice was soft again, and her eyes were cast down.
“Your husband?” he asked.
“Arranged.” Her voice was barely audible. “A rutting bear.” Then, looking up, she bit her lip and added in a rush, “For once I’d like to know what it’s like to be with someone gentle.”
When the night fell silent and the woman slept, the Shaw looked up at the stars, tracing Sister Canin among them. He wondered whether his mother’s words were true. Did Canin’s blood run through his veins, however diluted it had become over the ages?
He touched the fox’s tail braided in his hair and thought, “If not literally, then figuratively.”
Rolling over, he traced the flank of the “Deer” woman next to him. He thought sadly, “The deer and fox were not meant to mate. I hope she will be okay. And if the seed takes root, I wish the same for it.”
Then he too drifted off.
They ate in silence the next morning, he from habit, and she lost in memory. When they reached the trail to her village, he bid her stay a moment.
He took a shawl from his pack and said, “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have to give you.”
“But…” she began, but he silenced her with a finger.
“The nameless do not need such things. Keep it and remember that there are gentle things in the world. She was gentle, and so are you.” Before she could protest further, he turned and disappeared.
Note 1: #FanFiction for a yet-to-be-published book, “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague.
-
Mating of the Deer and Fox (Part 2: Fox)
Soon, he had lit a fire and started roasting a hare over it. Wrapped in wet leaves and buried under the coals, the mushrooms cooked with wild onions. When they were done, they ate the fare seasoned with salt from a #stash in his pack. Besides a simple compliment and equally simple acknowledgment, they ate in silence—he out of habit, and she out of deference.
Food finished, the Shaw broke the silence. “I’ll show you the way to your village tomorrow. You may keep my cloak tonight; it will be cold.”
“Omnit thanks you. But aren’t you afraid my kin will find and kill you?”
“Aren’t you afraid of being alone in the #wilderness with an oathless Shaw? And to answer your question, no. I will have faded away long before they arrive. Your people make a rutting bear sound quiet.”
“Oh,” she said, silent for a moment. “I’m not afraid of being alone with you anymore. You’re the gentlest man I’ve ever met.”
“Your husband? Father? Brothers?”
“Brutes. They brought us here to settle. I’ve seen what they do to the Shaws they capture. They say it’s their just desserts. As for me, I must do as I am told.”
The man pulled a sour face but didn’t comment.
“It will be cold tonight, and you’ve given me your cloak. I could share it with you.” The woman’s voice was soft again, and her eyes were cast down.
“Your husband?” he asked.
“Arranged.” Her voice was barely audible. “A rutting bear.” Then, looking up, she bit her lip and added in a rush, “For once I’d like to know what it’s like to be with someone gentle.”
When the night fell silent and the woman slept, the Shaw looked up at the stars, tracing Sister Canin among them. He wondered whether his mother’s words were true. Did Canin’s blood run through his veins, however diluted it had become over the ages?
He touched the fox’s tail braided in his hair and thought, “If not literally, then figuratively.”
Rolling over, he traced the flank of the “Deer” woman next to him. He thought sadly, “The deer and fox were not meant to mate. I hope she will be okay. And if the seed takes root, I wish the same for it.”
Then he too drifted off.
They ate in silence the next morning, he from habit, and she lost in memory. When they reached the trail to her village, he bid her stay a moment.
He took a shawl from his pack and said, “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have to give you.”
“But…” she began, but he silenced her with a finger.
“The nameless do not need such things. Keep it and remember that there are gentle things in the world. She was gentle, and so are you.” Before she could protest further, he turned and disappeared.
Note 1: #FanFiction for a yet-to-be-published book, “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague.
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Mating of the Deer and Fox (Part 1: Fawn)
The Inacar woman looked across the clearing and shrank back. The man she’d just spotted examined her curiously. He was tall with broad shoulders. Fox tails dangled from his red hair, and a vulpine face adorned his bare, brawny chest.
“Lost?” he asked in a Shaw accent.
She nodded and looked back the way she’d come. The branches hung over the animal track in a tangled mass. Fleeing would be #totally impossible.
Her eyes returned to the Shaw. He was kneeling now, looking at her with a narrow, calculating gaze, as if she were a frightened titmouse or fawn. She shivered, remembering the stories about how the Shaw treated captured women.
“You don’t need to be frightened,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” His tone held no trace of guile, but could she trust that?
“You’re a Shaw.” Her voice was a whisper, barely loud enough to reach him.
“I’m an in-between, no longer a Shaw.”
“Oathless,” she said. Fear still trembled in her voice.
“That’s what your people call me. Those that were mine have no name for me, for I no longer exist.”
He slowly reached behind him and pulled a pack from where it had been hidden in the ferns.
“If you’re cold, I can make a fire,” he said. “I also have food. Perhaps we can share.” He looked at the basket she held.
She took a hesitant, fawn-like step forward. “I was picking mushrooms and got lost.”
He nodded but said nothing.
She took another step forward when a loud crash came from the bushes. She froze, staring.
“It’s just a deer I was hunting. Perhaps one of your kin?” His laugh was a pleasant rumble in his chest. She liked the sound and stepped closer.
In response, he took off his cloak and laid it on the ground. “Sit while I gather wood.”
To be Continued
Note 1: #FanFiction for a yet-to-be-published book, “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague.
Note 2: #Kickstarter “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague. -
Mating of the Deer and Fox (Part 1: Fawn)
The Inacar woman looked across the clearing and shrank back. The man she’d just spotted examined her curiously. He was tall with broad shoulders. Fox tails dangled from his red hair, and a vulpine face adorned his bare, brawny chest.
“Lost?” he asked in a Shaw accent.
She nodded and looked back the way she’d come. The branches hung over the animal track in a tangled mass. Fleeing would be #totally impossible.
Her eyes returned to the Shaw. He was kneeling now, looking at her with a narrow, calculating gaze, as if she were a frightened titmouse or fawn. She shivered, remembering the stories about how the Shaw treated captured women.
“You don’t need to be frightened,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” His tone held no trace of guile, but could she trust that?
“You’re a Shaw.” Her voice was a whisper, barely loud enough to reach him.
“I’m an in-between, no longer a Shaw.”
“Oathless,” she said. Fear still trembled in her voice.
“That’s what your people call me. Those that were mine have no name for me, for I no longer exist.”
He slowly reached behind him and pulled a pack from where it had been hidden in the ferns.
“If you’re cold, I can make a fire,” he said. “I also have food. Perhaps we can share.” He looked at the basket she held.
She took a hesitant, fawn-like step forward. “I was picking mushrooms and got lost.”
He nodded but said nothing.
She took another step forward when a loud crash came from the bushes. She froze, staring.
“It’s just a deer I was hunting. Perhaps one of your kin?” His laugh was a pleasant rumble in his chest. She liked the sound and stepped closer.
In response, he took off his cloak and laid it on the ground. “Sit while I gather wood.”
To be Continued
Note 1: #FanFiction for a yet-to-be-published book, “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague.
Note 2: #Kickstarter “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague. -
Mating of the Deer and Fox (Part 1: Fawn)
The Inacar woman looked across the clearing and shrank back. The man she’d just spotted examined her curiously. He was tall with broad shoulders. Fox tails dangled from his red hair, and a vulpine face adorned his bare, brawny chest.
“Lost?” he asked in a Shaw accent.
She nodded and looked back the way she’d come. The branches hung over the animal track in a tangled mass. Fleeing would be #totally impossible.
Her eyes returned to the Shaw. He was kneeling now, looking at her with a narrow, calculating gaze, as if she were a frightened titmouse or fawn. She shivered, remembering the stories about how the Shaw treated captured women.
“You don’t need to be frightened,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” His tone held no trace of guile, but could she trust that?
“You’re a Shaw.” Her voice was a whisper, barely loud enough to reach him.
“I’m an in-between, no longer a Shaw.”
“Oathless,” she said. Fear still trembled in her voice.
“That’s what your people call me. Those that were mine have no name for me, for I no longer exist.”
He slowly reached behind him and pulled a pack from where it had been hidden in the ferns.
“If you’re cold, I can make a fire,” he said. “I also have food. Perhaps we can share.” He looked at the basket she held.
She took a hesitant, fawn-like step forward. “I was picking mushrooms and got lost.”
He nodded but said nothing.
She took another step forward when a loud crash came from the bushes. She froze, staring.
“It’s just a deer I was hunting. Perhaps one of your kin?” His laugh was a pleasant rumble in his chest. She liked the sound and stepped closer.
In response, he took off his cloak and laid it on the ground. “Sit while I gather wood.”
To be Continued
Note 1: #FanFiction for a yet-to-be-published book, “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague.
Note 2: #Kickstarter “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague. -
Mating of the Deer and Fox (Part 1: Fawn)
The Inacar woman looked across the clearing and shrank back. The man she’d just spotted examined her curiously. He was tall with broad shoulders. Fox tails dangled from his red hair, and a vulpine face adorned his bare, brawny chest.
“Lost?” he asked in a Shaw accent.
She nodded and looked back the way she’d come. The branches hung over the animal track in a tangled mass. Fleeing would be #totally impossible.
Her eyes returned to the Shaw. He was kneeling now, looking at her with a narrow, calculating gaze, as if she were a frightened titmouse or fawn. She shivered, remembering the stories about how the Shaw treated captured women.
“You don’t need to be frightened,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” His tone held no trace of guile, but could she trust that?
“You’re a Shaw.” Her voice was a whisper, barely loud enough to reach him.
“I’m an in-between, no longer a Shaw.”
“Oathless,” she said. Fear still trembled in her voice.
“That’s what your people call me. Those that were mine have no name for me, for I no longer exist.”
He slowly reached behind him and pulled a pack from where it had been hidden in the ferns.
“If you’re cold, I can make a fire,” he said. “I also have food. Perhaps we can share.” He looked at the basket she held.
She took a hesitant, fawn-like step forward. “I was picking mushrooms and got lost.”
He nodded but said nothing.
She took another step forward when a loud crash came from the bushes. She froze, staring.
“It’s just a deer I was hunting. Perhaps one of your kin?” His laugh was a pleasant rumble in his chest. She liked the sound and stepped closer.
In response, he took off his cloak and laid it on the ground. “Sit while I gather wood.”
To be Continued
Note 1: #FanFiction for a yet-to-be-published book, “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague.
Note 2: #Kickstarter “Soul Fire” by Jesse Sprague. -
Added #wsi #wholeslideimage of Solid Pseudopapillary Neoplasm of #Pancreas to Histopathology Atlas: https://histopathologyatlas.com/pancreas.html#sec-pancreas-solid-pseudopapillary histopathologyatlas #patholoy #pathologists #PBPath
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Added #wsi #wholeslideimage of Solid Pseudopapillary Neoplasm of #Pancreas to Histopathology Atlas:
https://www.histopathologyatlas.com/pancreas.html#sec-pancreas-solid-pseudopapillary
#histopathologyatlas #patholoy #pathologists #PBPath -
Added #wsi #wholeslideimage of Solid Pseudopapillary Neoplasm of #Pancreas to Histopathology Atlas:
https://www.histopathologyatlas.com/pancreas.html#sec-pancreas-solid-pseudopapillary
#histopathologyatlas #patholoy #pathologists #PBPath -
Added #wsi #wholeslideimage of Solid Pseudopapillary Neoplasm of #Pancreas to Histopathology Atlas:
https://www.histopathologyatlas.com/pancreas.html#sec-pancreas-solid-pseudopapillary
#histopathologyatlas #patholoy #pathologists #PBPath -
Added #wsi #wholeslideimage of Solid Pseudopapillary Neoplasm of #Pancreas to Histopathology Atlas:
https://www.histopathologyatlas.com/pancreas.html#sec-pancreas-solid-pseudopapillary
#histopathologyatlas #patholoy #pathologists #PBPath -
WSJ reporter Evan Gershkovich, falsely accused of espionage and held in Moscow since March 2023, is indicted in Russia.
The "espionage" charges against Evan are a sham, and Russia knows it.
Putin should drop these charges now!
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Many of our riders use the Hood Canal Bridge to get to/from our terminals (lookin' at you, #Bainbridge, #Kingston, and #PortTownsend riders). Ever wondered how it works? Check out this cool video from our friends at @wsdot_tacoma! https://t.co/JTNNkAIc8U
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Two of my favourite plants! 💚😍 To be honest I have so many "favourite plants" it could be said I love them all deeply. Such textures, shapes, hues and lines. Every plant is art-full and full of spirit. Vibrant. Generous. An integral part of habitats and bi(h)omes. Regenerative, and nourishing to the heart, mind, and sometimes belly. How I love thee....
#wsanecterritory #skunkcabbage #horsetailplant #杉菜 #pnw #wander #wetlands
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Two of my favourite plants! 💚😍 To be honest I have so many "favourite plants" it could be said I love them all deeply. Such textures, shapes, hues and lines. Every plant is art-full and full of spirit. Vibrant. Generous. An integral part of habitats and bi(h)omes. Regenerative, and nourishing to the heart, mind, and sometimes belly. How I love thee....
#wsanecterritory #skunkcabbage #horsetailplant #杉菜 #pnw #wander #wetlands
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Two of my favourite plants! 💚😍 To be honest I have so many "favourite plants" it could be said I love them all deeply. Such textures, shapes, hues and lines. Every plant is art-full and full of spirit. Vibrant. Generous. An integral part of habitats and bi(h)omes. Regenerative, and nourishing to the heart, mind, and sometimes belly. How I love thee....
#wsanecterritory #skunkcabbage #horsetailplant #杉菜 #pnw #wander #wetlands
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Two of my favourite plants! 💚😍 To be honest I have so many "favourite plants" it could be said I love them all deeply. Such textures, shapes, hues and lines. Every plant is art-full and full of spirit. Vibrant. Generous. An integral part of habitats and bi(h)omes. Regenerative, and nourishing to the heart, mind, and sometimes belly. How I love thee....
#wsanecterritory #skunkcabbage #horsetailplant #杉菜 #pnw #wander #wetlands
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Honor of a lifetime for new WSF leader, #Samish crew helps rescue 6 boaters, spring sailing schedule begins Sunday 3/24, annual vessels and terminal report, a different Buoy on our boat and more in our latest Weekly Update: https://t.co/5FPIWWvmMM https://t.co/z4r7skhOMj
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Honor of a lifetime for new WSF leader, #Samish crew helps rescue 6 boaters, spring sailing schedule begins Sunday 3/24, annual vessels and terminal report, a different Buoy on our boat and more in our latest Weekly Update: https://t.co/5FPIWWvmMM https://t.co/z4r7skhOMj
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Honor of a lifetime for new WSF leader, #Samish crew helps rescue 6 boaters, spring sailing schedule begins Sunday 3/24, annual vessels and terminal report, a different Buoy on our boat and more in our latest Weekly Update: https://t.co/5FPIWWvmMM https://t.co/z4r7skhOMj
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Honor of a lifetime for new WSF leader, #Samish crew helps rescue 6 boaters, spring sailing schedule begins Sunday 3/24, annual vessels and terminal report, a different Buoy on our boat and more in our latest Weekly Update: https://t.co/5FPIWWvmMM https://t.co/z4r7skhOMj
