Here we are at day 4 of National Poetry Month. If it weren't for the notable warmup forecast for the next several days, I might be writing this from a padded cell. Our total snowfall was in the 10" to 11" range, maybe an inch or so more. Early this morning, it looked pretty.
snowfall, early April 4 © harrington
Later in the day, it looked picturesque.
snow covered ground and trees, April 4 © harrington
It wasn't quite deep enough to cause us to crawl out the window, but I think it looks best as it is now, melting. I saw a report on Twitter that there's open water in the St. Croix. I'll check that out this weekend or early next week.
Crawling Out the WindowWhen water starts to run, winds come to the sky car-
rying parts of Canada, and the house is filled with the
scent of dead grass thawing. When spring comes on
the continental divide, the snowbanks are broken in
two and half fall south and half fall north. It's the Gulf
of Mexico or Hudson Bay, one or the other for the
snow, the dirt, the grass, the animals and me. The
Minnesota prairie has never heard of free will. It asks
you, quietly at first, to accept and even love your fate.
You find out that if you fall south, life will be easy, like
warm rain. You wake up with an outgoing personal-
ity and a knack for business. The river carries you.
You float easily and are a good swimmer. But if you
fall north while daydreaming, you never quite get
your footing back again. You will spend most of your
time looking toward yourself and see nothing but
holes. There will be gaps in memory and you
won't be able to earn a living. You always point north
like a compass. You always have to travel on foot
against the wind. You always think things might get
better. You watch the geese and are sure you can fly.
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.