TW Column by Judith A. Ross
My unquestionably beautiful surroundings, once so freeing, now seem limiting.
My unquestionably beautiful surroundings, once so freeing, now seem limiting.
Perhaps the rest of the herd can tell the calf is headed to its death.
There’s nothing like a thirteen-year-old to get a parent raving about the evils of technology.
I had to stay quiet. No one could know what was happening. I had to lie perfectly still or things would get even worse.
All a writer really has is time. Time to think. Time to read. Time to write.
I was reminded of the beauty found in fragile things.
At the end of summer, tiny frogs swarmed on the long sliver of beach by the pond, darkening the sand.
Nature writing isn’t just recording what you see, hear, and feel.
Watching the destruction and repair of seawalls has compelled us to reconsider our response to a rising tide and damaging storms.
A photographer from Italy once wrote to me, 'Flowers should elect you their queen.'