Angle Of Vision Analysis : Blissful Chicken Coop

( Chapter 3) Naked in the warm June sunshine, six or seven hundred little boys and girls were running with shrill yells over the lawns, or playing ball games, or squatting silently in twos and threes among the flowering shrubs. The roses were in bloom, two nightingales soliloquized in the boskage, a cuckoo was just going out of tune among the lime trees.The air was drowsy with the murmur of bees and helicopters (Huxley 30).

“James,” he says. We begin walking where there is a bundle of people and he looks concerned. “How about I send you to the sheriff’s station? They will surely help you out,” he says. “If it will help,” I say. The chirping of birds seems to follow me, it triggers a memory of home. When Mama and I would take short walks through the meadow behind our home. Whistling along with the bird's melody is what we did. Back then, I had no worries at all. Now, all I have is worries.

A library can be a repository of knowledge or a squirrel’s worst nightmare. With this in mind an angle of vision is being created. An angle of vision is not simply written, it is carefully and deliberately constructed through the proper use of five rhetorical strategies. Word Choice, Sentence Structure, Overt Statements, Figurative Language, and Selection and Omission of Details are the strategies used by writers to create the angle of vision. To understand these strategies I have written two paragraphs that are similar in description yet carry vastly different angles of vision.

When thinking of birds, visualizing them building their nests in cacti certainly isn't the first thing that comes to mind. In the book, The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver, metaphorically everyone is constantly building their nests in cacti, and evolving from their experiences. From living in attics to taking trips across the country with no destination, characters in this book don't live what society considers the “conventional American lifestyle.” Growing and thriving in unexpected and unusual places and ways is nothing but average throughout the book. Taylor, despite unorthodox living arrangements or lifestyle, shows how living things are able to find methods of growing and changing. From great change in location to change within

The imagery in the article, which captivates the reader immediately, emphasises the cruelty of mankind towards the chickens. This photograph of chickens locked up in a small case can emotionally manipulate the reader as it may cause one to feel sympathy for the chickens. Because a photograph is reliable and that it is evidence to show that humanity is indeed down to this level, the reader will believe what the author said is right and that something should indeed be done

After two long hours of traveling with nothing to look at but the passing trees, we finally arrived at the farm. As we piled out of the car, I looked at the dirt road we came in on and turned to the house. It was one story and had a red tin roof, surrounded by a large grassy field and then woods beyond that. Twirling around, I walked into the house and plopped onto the closes bed. As everyone else unpacked, I locked myself in the room like a petulant child.

The thundering sound of hooves echoes in my ears as my horse comes barreling down the hill toward me. My whistle had caused him to go crashing through the tall grass and Queen Ann’s Lace in search of me once again. Coming to a sliding stop in front of me, I gently stroke his muzzle. Letting my hands glide over his fuzzy neck and into his jet black mane, I grab ahold and throw myself onto his strong back. We go running through the pasture, scattering wild rabbits and sending sparrows a flight. I watch them fly overhead, their brown wings leading them to rest in the big oak tree that my horse and I come to a halt underneath.

The morning air seeped through the open window as the newly rising sun glowed on the barren rock landscape dome. It wasn’t so barren though, there was small house that laid nestled in the rocks. The house was more like a small shackled shed than an actually house. The house was small and simple, made out of wood equipped with a chicken coop and garden. The house was had one room. In the room was a fireplace, coal burning stove, table for two, and a twin sized bed shoved in the corner. The bed was unmade and a man stood at the stove making his morning breakfast of eggs.

For a moment, I was transported back to my grandmother’s house in Small Town, Tennessee. I could smell the fresh Earth and hear all of the different livestock, fowl and outside dogs that guarded the animals, just as they did the house, from any predators. I recalled being a little girl dancing like no one watched, dreaming up inventions,

The factory farms is only seen from a profit stand point with out the chickens' well being kept in mind. Where the animals are kept on the factory farms this forces the animals to suffer in unbearable conditions. Often the barns are truly sheds with no windows; this leads to no fresh air or sun light. The amount of animals in the building are

Muscles tensed and contrasted with every movement that was created by the outside forces, tiny eyes cracking open to the sunshine that would illuminate across their eyes in retangular or circular pattern, depending on the angle of where it shined off of. A mother and her two children lay not far, keeping their cozy home within the safest place that the older female could find for young pups, their bodies lying still most of the time as they were consumed by slumber's haze, only to twitch every now and then from a possible event in a dream.

In the woods there lived a women that played a beautiful song on her golden harp. Her name was Elizabeth these songs were like a call that would signal the animals in the forest. This signal would impact their actions, the song she played in December was so beautiful it put the animals into a deep sleep that lasted till the end of winter. During winter the animals would sleep so soundly that nothing could hurt them. Elizabeth’s song would change the seasons, the song of the spring brought back the leaves on the trees, they grew the grass, and they melted snow and ice. She stopped playing her music and took her harp to the bottom of the pond and fell asleep. The next day Elizabeth decided to practice the song that brings animals to

The most noticeable sound was the noise of the street nearby, the bustle of cars and students walking to and from class. However, that noise soon settled into the background and I could hear the uncommon sound of birds. Sitting down on one of the benches on the south side of the garden, I put down my backpack and quietly observed for a few minutes. Only after slowing down could I truly see and feel the subtleties of the natural world around me.

It was a cold, dark October evening as a hunting junky named Frank sets out on his journey to his cabin in the great Rocky Mountains. He is wanting to bag a Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep to bring home along with bragging rights. As Frank is walking down the trail to get the his cabin he doesn't notice anything out of the usual. He can't help but think of how beautiful and peaceful it is out in the wilderness: the changing leaves, the faint smell of a distant fire as it warms up a quaint little house, and the crunch of dead twigs under his feet. After his long journey he sees his cabin up ahead in a grove of trees. Frank finally gets to his front door, unlocks it, and walks in. His home away from home he thought as

I had violent, grass-stained war games with my neighborhood friends, while my mother worked in her small vegetable garden among the honeybees, and watched things grow. An ever-present warming smell of knishes and hot dogs permeated around every inch of my block as the nearby concession pumped a constant flow of fresh food to hungry little leaguers and their families. Looking up, the summer sky looked like an Easter egg God had dipped in blue dye.