Winter potpourri

I don't want to jinx myself, but so far this is shaping up as a pretty good week.  Yesterday, MN Blog Cabin syndicated last Friday's posting on the significance of PolyMet jobs to the economy of the Range; today I noticed Greg Seitz had news about possible wolf tracks near Osceola (which is south of where this is being written). That's exciting if true. Molly Steinwald tweeted a charming piece about children and nature and poetry and this morning I discovered some of the most wonderful and heartwarming photography I've ever seen. We're making some progress locally with the new bookshelves and I finally got around to restringing my guitar without casualties. That's almost enough good news to offset a 2 PM temperature of negative 2 degrees. Later this week it's supposed to get up to freezing and then snow (deep sigh). Keeping the feeders full is becoming a full time job.

feeder follower                © harrington

Driving down to Zumbrota on Saturday, I noticed that the Cannon River had a fair amount of open water where Highway 52 crosses. The smaller Zumbro River didn't. That's made me curious to go take a look at the St. Croix and see if it's open or ice covered and maybe even take some pictures. I really enjoy living where there are four seasons. I'd like it more if our weather stayed closer to our averages. Two Polar Vortices in one month is pushing me to my limits. On the other hand, by this time next month the sun will feel noticeably warm if you're sitting in your car in the sunshine (especially if your car is black). I'm still trying to adopt a "small victories" philosophy and sometimes looking ahead is the best I can do. Margaret Atwood raises a question of which country we think we're in.

The animals in that country

By Margaret Atwood 

In that country the animals   

have the faces of people:

the ceremonial

cats possessing the streets

the fox run

politely to earth, the huntsmen   

standing around him, fixed   

in their tapestry of manners

the bull, embroidered

with blood and given

an elegant death, trumpets, his name   

stamped on him, heraldic brand   

because

(when he rolled

on the sand, sword in his heart, the teeth   

in his blue mouth were human)

he is really a man

even the wolves, holding resonant   

conversations in their   

forests thickened with legend.

            In this country the animals   

            have the faces of   

            animals.

            Their eyes

            flash once in car headlights   

            and are gone.

            Their deaths are not elegant.

            They have the faces of   

            no-one.

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