"The weakening eye of day"

{Talking by moonlight bright.}


{An eye out, in Constantinople.}


{With little to weigh me down.}


{And lo! she flies.}


{A sad dream takes a promising turn.}


{Footing found slowly in new lands. (Come mid August, these six postcard collages will be but a few amongst 464.)}

I have made a great mistake. I have wasted my life with mineralogy, which has led to nothing. Had I devoted myself to birds, their life and plumage, I might have produced something worth doing.
(John Ruskin)

Birds have been on my mind of late. Birds in the form of twelve inked portraits printed and awaiting glorious hand-colouring (Louise's A Flight of Twelve Southern Hemisphere Birds) and birds suggested through movement and white tulle (Graeme Murphy's Swan Lake).

("The weakening eye of day" is a line pulled from The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy.)