Wood Duck

A lovely take off habitat image Ludo.

Rob

Nice flight shot of this beautiful woody.

Nice in flight duck picture. I like the habitat.

Peter Tamas (sirianul)

Mako, you have put into a photo some thing that is dear to my heart and have expressed it beautifully. I hope my poem about the little fellow does not offend. and moderator man will allow it.

Ode to a Wood Duck

The pond he spied from lofty flight
Appeared quite to his delight.
Some beaver's work of them he was quite fond.
Their labors gave him haven; he'd light upon that pond.
This too he knew No creatures were about
That would to him do harm.
Of this he had no doubt,
Cause Mrs. Beaver and their clan
Was doing what they do best.
Work and work and work and never taking rest,
Did stock a store of winter's fare
To feed them all with princely share
Through the long dark winter and its snow.
These scenes below appeared quite right
So the little duck, he would alight
To rest on water's burnished surface.
For sun was west and had the landscape painted
With hues of gold upon the pond and sky to pink
And rose and Lavender. Creator's work untainted.
To what avail? For all this paled
When the little fellow did appear.
His plumed dress outshone this very splendor,
Cause Creator'd took of His best pots
All hues and brightest colors
And did with stroke and stoke and stroke
Ply the very same to the little fellow's feathers.
About his head; of those who'd seen
None could quite agree
If, in fact, 'twas blue or green
Or just what color it could be;
The wise said iridescent.
His eyes were pools of liquid fire;
Quite a very brilliant red
With hints of orange and yellow
And pupils black as night
Compared by some (a few) to Satan's dread.
Tis not his plight:
We'd put his case to right
He is a very shy retiring fellow;
Seldom see by mortal sight
Except perhaps when he's in flight.
You'd think this splendorous best
Would give cause for Creator to desist
To admire his work while He'd rest.
Yet, HE could not resist!
He crowned this fellow with a crest
Of feathers tinged unlike the rest
With just the very tips more white than snow.
And while heavenly hand was in that pot
Did dabble with another spot:
The little fellow's throat was got
And given a design quite unique.
Some (wise in nature's ways they're not)
Do state: it's why he does not quack like other ducks
But when he does give voice
Does only issue this unseemly choice,
When frightened from his hidden haven
By some intruder to his solitude.
"QueeecK!"
Yet, still, the Maker was not done.
He took the pot that makes of sun
When it has westered and is gone
That hue of deepest rose
Did carefully paint upon the breast
Of that little fellow on the pond.
Still, it seems, He was not quite content.
He took the very points from flakes of snow
And did arrange them row and row and row
Upon that selfsame chest.
The very tiny tips He placed near top
And as they graduated to a larger size
Infinite wisdom did readily realize
A very handsome scene He'd show
If their size increased as they'd flow
Over a breast He'd painted lighter shades
Of Rose.
His bill, His beak, of color there is plenty.
Cream pink yellow orange and red
And tip of shiny black.
Yet, not one shade does it lack
And none of them detract
For all become its splendor.
Man can only just suppose
Why Creator would such a beauteous creature compose
Then give him disposition so retiring
That if we would to see a sight of him, (Inspiring!)
We must go silently and with great stealth
To places most (unlike the little duck of colorful wealth)
Are not inclined be.
Copyright 1990 A. Tom McCoy
A. Tom McCoy, is the author of "All About Wizzer; The True Tales of the Chestnut Valley Gang" available from Amazon.com.
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/expert/A_Tom_McCoy/169961


Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/1689117

Nice in habitat flight shot, Ludo.

A fine takeoff shot, Ludo, and it's sharp as a tack!

Beautiful capture.

Beautiful capture.

Atom McCoy wrote:Mako, you have put into a photo some thing that is dear to my heart and have expressed it beautifully. I hope my poem about the little fellow does not offend. and moderator man will allow it.

Ode to a Wood Duck

The pond he spied from lofty flight
Appeared quite to his delight.
Some beaver's work of them he was quite fond.
Their labors gave him haven; he'd light upon that pond.
This too he knew No creatures were about
That would to him do harm.
Of this he had no doubt,
Cause Mrs. Beaver and their clan
Was doing what they do best.
Work and work and work and never taking rest,
Did stock a store of winter's fare
To feed them all with princely share
Through the long dark winter and its snow.
These scenes below appeared quite right
So the little duck, he would alight
To rest on water's burnished surface.
For sun was west and had the landscape painted
With hues of gold upon the pond and sky to pink
And rose and Lavender. Creator's work untainted.
To what avail? For all this paled
When the little fellow did appear.
His plumed dress outshone this very splendor,
Cause Creator'd took of His best pots
All hues and brightest colors
And did with stroke and stoke and stroke
Ply the very same to the little fellow's feathers.
About his head; of those who'd seen
None could quite agree
If, in fact, 'twas blue or green
Or just what color it could be;
The wise said iridescent.
His eyes were pools of liquid fire;
Quite a very brilliant red
With hints of orange and yellow
And pupils black as night
Compared by some (a few) to Satan's dread.
Tis not his plight:
We'd put his case to right
He is a very shy retiring fellow;
Seldom see by mortal sight
Except perhaps when he's in flight.
You'd think this splendorous best
Would give cause for Creator to desist
To admire his work while He'd rest.
Yet, HE could not resist!
He crowned this fellow with a crest
Of feathers tinged unlike the rest
With just the very tips more white than snow.
And while heavenly hand was in that pot
Did dabble with another spot:
The little fellow's throat was got
And given a design quite unique.
Some (wise in nature's ways they're not)
Do state: it's why he does not quack like other ducks
But when he does give voice
Does only issue this unseemly choice,
When frightened from his hidden haven
By some intruder to his solitude.
"QueeecK!"
Yet, still, the Maker was not done.
He took the pot that makes of sun
When it has westered and is gone
That hue of deepest rose
Did carefully paint upon the breast
Of that little fellow on the pond.
Still, it seems, He was not quite content.
He took the very points from flakes of snow
And did arrange them row and row and row
Upon that selfsame chest.
The very tiny tips He placed near top
And as they graduated to a larger size
Infinite wisdom did readily realize
A very handsome scene He'd show
If their size increased as they'd flow
Over a breast He'd painted lighter shades
Of Rose.
His bill, His beak, of color there is plenty.
Cream pink yellow orange and red
And tip of shiny black.
Yet, not one shade does it lack
And none of them detract
For all become its splendor.
Man can only just suppose
Why Creator would such a beauteous creature compose
Then give him disposition so retiring
That if we would to see a sight of him, (Inspiring!)
We must go silently and with great stealth
To places most (unlike the little duck of colorful wealth)
Are not inclined be.
Copyright 1990 A. Tom McCoy
A. Tom McCoy, is the author of "All About Wizzer; The True Tales of the Chestnut Valley Gang" available from Amazon.com.
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/expert/A_Tom_McCoy/169961


Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/1689117

Thank you all for the kind words. 
Tom, that is a very nice poem. Thanks for sharing it.

Ludo

Lovely action take off and sweet habitat background Ludo!

Carol.