Mit dem Beginn der neuen Eiszeit in Deutschland hat sich das Habitat dieses jungen Pinguins bis in die Regentonne unseres Gartens ausgeweitet. Hier genießt er Artenschutz. Ist doch klar.
Ein Plüschtier mit dem Aussehen eines Pinguins, vorne weiß und hinten schwarz, einen gelben Schnabel und grauen, runden Füßen steht in einem Schneeloch auf dem Eis.
Frost-covered fields at sunrise under a soft orange sky, with bare trees and utility poles fading into morning mist. In the foreground, dark green leaves frame a rural scene with a small outbuilding, fence, and a narrow road curving through the countryside.
Color image of salt/ice/snow/frost images on a concrete driveway, Bath Township, Summit County, Ohio, USA. Salt on the driveway concrete results in areas of melt and refreezing that, with wind and sun and gravity, paints streaky images on the driveway's surface, in long sinewy lines of white and gray.
Fifty-five years ago, give or take, I stood at the base of Mount Fujiyama in winter—with no pants. What happened was this...
I was a Marine, fresh to cold weather training. We were out maneuvering, and that night we camped at elevation, pitching our pup tents in the snow. Each Marine carried a shelter half and a three-piece tent pole; two halves made one tent, a kind of forced partnership in nylon. We had cold-weather sleeping bags, too—issued, not chosen.
Before lights out, we received instructions on how to sleep. One rule stood out: don’t sleep with your pants on—put them in the bag with you. I misunderstood slightly. Instead of tucking them inside the bag, I slid them between the sleeping bag and its canvas liner, thinking that was close enough.
That night, the temperature dropped hard. Snow fell. By morning, everything was frozen solid. We were ordered to move out immediately. Our tents had to be beaten down with entrenching tools. My personal dilemma? My pants had frozen stiff. I couldn’t get them on. So there I was, marching through the hills in long johns, no pants, and a growing sense of regret.
Not my proudest moment. I was eighteen, maybe nineteen—a late bloomer with a loose grip on the concept of “attention to detail.” Back then, I wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the bunch. But life has a way of teaching. Maturity works, and it tends to arrive eventually. These days, attention to detail isn’t just a habit—it’s a pet peeve. Earned the hard way, one frozen trouser leg at a time.
“Failure is instructive. The person who really thinks learns quite as much from his failures as from his successes.” — John Dewey
“The difference between something good and something great is attention to detail.” — Charles R. Swindoll
"A dense, lively patch of Madagascar periwinkles spills across the frame like a floral tide. Each blossom is a five-petaled star, soft-edged and slightly overlapping, with a subtle dip at the center where a tiny eye—often darker pink or faintly red—marks the flower’s heart. Most of the blooms are a rich, cheerful pink, ranging from bubblegum to raspberry tones, while a few white ones punctuate the scene like quiet pauses in a bright melody.
The leaves are glossy and oval, deep green with faint central veins, forming a lush backdrop that cradles the flowers. Their waxy texture catches the light, giving the whole bed a sense of health and vibrancy. The arrangement is thick and layered, with no bare soil visible—just a carpet of color and life. Some petals curl slightly at the edges, hinting at movement or age, but the overall impression is one of abundance and bloom.
There’s no visible horizon or sky—just this intimate, immersive view of the periwinkles in full flourish, as if the garden itself were leaning in to whisper something bright and botanical." - Copilot
A towering glacier wall rises from a frozen, icy sea under a dark polar sky in Antarctica. The ice face is sculpted with intricate cracks and ridges, catching soft side light that highlights its texture and depth. The vast expanse of flat, frozen ocean stretches into the distance, while the sky above fades from a deep navy at the top to a paler gradient near the horizon, emphasizing the stark isolation and minimalist beauty of the polar landscape.
Gullfoss, often referred to as the "Golden Falls," is one of Iceland's most iconic and breathtaking waterfalls. Located in the Hvítá river canyon in southwest Iceland, Gullfoss is part of the Golden Circle, a popular tourist route that also includes Þingvellir National Park and the geothermal area in Haukadalur, home to the famous geysers Geysir and Strokkur.
The waterfall consists of two distinct tiers, with a total drop of about 32 meters. The water cascades down in a dramatic manner, creating a powerful and mesmerizing sight. On sunny days, the mist generated by the falls often results in beautiful rainbows, adding to the enchantment of the scenery. The site is accessible year-round, with each season offering a unique experience, from the lush greenery of summer to the icy formations of winter.