It’s Sunday. That means a bighorn photo is in order.
The day after, July 5th. Last night was a bit of a nerve-racking experience. With virtually no local public fireworks available to attend, it seems like a lot of people compensated by driving to Wyoming to buy their own. I like watching firework displays as much as the next adolescent boy, but last night was way out there in bizarro land. The local noise makers were at it sporadically all day yesterday and by night fall it was a full blown concerto of explosions and the smell of gunpowder, from every direction. The local news had helicopter video showing the metro area lit up across the horizon with starbursts. It didn’t let off until around midnight.
Our dogs couldn’t get out for a poop break for four hours. Every time they thought the could go out, a bomb or four exploded nearby and they boogied straight through the back door to hide behind mom’s recliner with her standing guard. Torture for the poor animals, pure torture. We’re lucky they didn’t poop on the carpet.
I’ve lost interest in the practice. I’ve seen enough and the ooooh – aaaah just isn’t there anymore. I still have all my fingers and enough photos that all look the same to consider myself done with it. I didn’t even attempt to drag out my old “how to photograph fireworks” article this year. It’s not rocket science.
Happy thought inventory.
It’s raining. Right now, it’s raining hard. Were in a drought now and boy, do we need the rain.
No excursions into Zombieland today. Did I mention it’s raining?
No first-responder activity to report, even after world war III last night. I did hear a few screaming sirens out on the road at a distance. I hope they found those missing fingers in the dark.
The hunkering down continues.
Still alive and well here in Denver.