The birds around here have been busy creating, too! Notice the lovely Lichens woven into the nest:
Do you see the Amazon warrior hiding in the bushes? Oliver made a spear and matching "dress" :
Here is the tip of the spear:
And here is his Mace. I hate to say it, I didn't know what a "Mace" was until Oliver made this. He redesigned his Mace so that he could "safely" swing it without the head falling off. I don't think I want him swinging it,anyway!:
Emily has been creating space! She decluttered her room, and moved two twin mattresses together to make a king sized bed for Mary Margaret and herself!:
We did create some messes, too, in the process of making new creations! Most of the messes are cleaned now, with the little ones tucked in bed, but I did find a remnant of our creativity : a little gathering of glitter and leaves swept neatly into a pile on the school room floor. The dust pan and brush were cast off quietly to the side. There is a Mockingbird singing out the window on this dark night. Anna is asleep on the floor next to me, warmed by her sheep skin rug. Somehow I feel like Long Fellow in his poem "The Day is Done." I know I have put this poem on my blog before,but I love it so much, I thought you may like to read it once more. I will leave you with that.
The Day is Done
The Day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.