For years, every morning, I drank
from the Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.
--Mary Oliver's "Mornings at Blackwater Creek"
It's my favorite poem and my favorite orange stripey. Thursday doesn't get much better than that.
I have like a cabillion shots of Hobbes drinking out of the pond that day. He was just so funny approaching the water, sneaking up on the frogs, hoping to hear a plop and a splash. He stood there for a bit, watching the fish, I think, and then he finally drank--stopping only when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye.
Everything in life is an adventure for Hobbes--from drinking out of the pond, to chasing butterflies. It's no wonder he enjoys life--he appreciates the little details. It's amazing how he doesn't tune out a thing--only me calling him inside.