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   🎓 Doc Freemo :jpf: 🇳🇱 (freemo@qoto.org)'s status on Thursday, 18-Apr-2024 09:37:55 JST 🎓 Doc Freemo :jpf: 🇳🇱

   in reply to

   @ech They could pack up and leave since they have no right to be there in the first place.

   In all seriousness though its not israel that should act at this point, the world shoukd declare war on both sides, wipe out their governments and ellect a new country wide democractly for all.

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   GreenSkyOverMe (Monika) (greenskyoverme@ohai.social)'s status on Monday, 11-Dec-2023 19:16:43 JST GreenSkyOverMe (Monika)

   in reply to

   @herrschwarz In general they will read out the file name. With additional effort of saving the file, going to the saved file, starting up the text extraction it may be possible to get it to read the text. So most of the time a blind user will not go through it - in particular if they don't know that it is a mostly text picture in the first place.

   In summary: Always include the text in the alt text.

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   Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 26-Nov-2023 10:36:16 JST Moira

   in reply to

   more than luck

   Padding along among roots and stobs in shade,
   I take the north-slope path to see old friends:
   red huckleberry and mountain hemlock

   subsisting on nurse logs amid moss; vanilla
   leaf, false Solomon's seal, sword fern, bracken,
   sorrel, twinflower, wild ginger, salmonberry,

   maiden-hair fern, ninebark, viney maple.
   They seem well; it's steep shade and deep
   mouldering duff. Enough rain has alighted

   upon this slope for centuries to build tall firs,
   straight cedars, twisted, hoary, wrangling maples.
   Yet the riverbed below seems troubled, shrunken.

   Stones I never see have suddenly shown
   themselves, shouldering past dried caddis cases
   and empty snail shells, standing in desiccated air.

   Here no trout hide from tiring current,
   awaiting mayflies. No osprey hovers above,
   awaiting trout. The river has shifted from

   its bed, lifted past every thirst, and gone
   to fall somewhere in the world as flood.
   A slug has blundered into dust in broiling

   sun and is in trouble. Not one for caressing
   slugs, I break two twigs for chopsticks, and move
   the mollusk to, I hope, a better place.

   In fellow feeling I expound to the slug
   my sunstruck orchard, panting flock,
   failing well and kitchen garden hard as ice.

   We'll all of us start shifting soon, I tell it,
   as ants shift from a burning glass. From here on
   you and I will need what's more than luck.