Just here to keep up with a well established group of old friends (don't believe a word they say about me!), and maybe meet some new ones as well. The artwork and photography are all originals, with the B&W's being graphite drawings. I also do a bit of writing as inspiration strikes. This is my favorite piece: The Gnarly Tree The Gnarly old Tree stood - barely alive, For many long years, at the end of the drive. An ancient sentinel that somehow survived The ravages of time - though ‘twas far past it’s prime. It’s branches were twisted And curled into knots, And it’s trunk was all knotholes And barren of bark. It’s tired old limbs trembled And begged to be dropped, And it’s few precious leaves Were all ugly and dark. But sprightly and nimble - a thing did appear, To bounce from it’s branches, and leap through it’s limbs! A bushy-tailed rodent the Tree would hold dear; A daredevil companion - the Squirrel without fear! The Tree would watch endlessly, beaming with pride, As the Squirrel darted tirelessly, top-bottom-to-sides. And when she was finally done for the day, Squirrel would sleep soundly, tucked safely away Where nothing could reach her - high, all alone - Snug in the branches. . . of Tree’s happy home. All through the summer, Squirrel frolicked and played, And Tree was as cheerful as much younger days. Yes, strange as it seems in this lonely old world, The Squirrel loved that Tree. . . and the Tree loved the Squirrel. Then on one cold fateful late August morn, The still of the silence was suddenly torn. . . When out of the quiet a shot rang out, And the world would soon learn that Tree’s could, indeed, shout. Tree woke in a panic - a boy with a gun! No time for morning pleasantries, “Run, Squirrel, run!” But, alas, as we’ve come to expect from Cruel Fate, The warning arrived at the ears of Squirrel late. In horror and sorrow, Tree looked grudgingly down, To see Squirrel as she lie there - still, on the ground. . . And suddenly Tree, who once doted and bragged, Heaved a deep, heavy sigh - and dolefully sagged. No more would he watch as Squirrel scurried about. . . And with that, the Gnarly Tree’s heart simply gave out. I woke in the morning the very next day, To discover that Tree had withered away. It’s color had turned to a pale, ashen gray, And the bulk of it’s branches had all rotted away. . . Now, some years later, And all that remains Is a hole in the ground, And a memory stained. But I know this for certain: In no small part, The Gnarly Tree died Of a Broken Heart. . . R. A. McG****** 08-28-06 (copyright)