|our branch of Winter wonderland|
Photo by J. Harrington
It snowed overnight and flurries continue off and on this morning. This time without raining first. Suddenly, Winter is here. Chickadees, light as they are, have been knocking snow from the branches as they come in to the feeder. Woodpeckers, downey, hairy, red-bellied, have all been wondering where the suet went under its snow-cap. When the pileated landed, he knocked off most of the snow and returned a sense of order to the world of the smaller woodpeckers. He didn't knock all of the snow off the top, so he sideways-pecked at the suet and twisted his head up every so often to take a look around for predators.
|Christmas tree, 2016 (better lights, less blur)|
Photo by J. Harrington
As promised yesterday, this morning the tripod came out and held the camera steady for that fraction of a second more that was needed to capture the tree lights and reduce blur to acceptable levels. Cameras are much like computers these days. What we want to blame on hardware or software is often the result of operator error (such as hand shake or, heaven forbid, poor judgement).
Without segue, I want to call your attention to the emergence of a new "Writers Resist" movement. According to AWP,
Since I write (blog, essays, poetry) and you read, and, as of this writing, no Minnesota events are listed, I want to see if I can help spark consideration for a local event on January 15 that Minnesota's literary community can participate in. Please help spread the word. Thanks!
When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you passhomeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiverspewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the lasttired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the coldat bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thoughtof entering that blue light, the chilled eyes watching you decidewhich seat to take: the man with one leg, his crutches bumpingthe smudged window glass, the woman with her purse clutchedto her breasts like a dead child, the boy, pimpled, morose, his headshorn, a swastika carved into the stubble, staring you down.So you walk into the cold you know: the wind, indifferent blade,familiar, the gold leaves heaped along the gutters. You havea home, a house with gas heat, a toilet that flushes. You havea credit card, cash. You could take a taxi if one would show up.You can feel it now: why people become Republicans: Get that dogoff the street. Remove that spit and graffiti. Arrest those people huddledon the steps of the church. If it weren’t for them you could believe in god,in freedom, the bus would appear and open its doors, the driver dressedin his tan uniform, pants legs creased, dapper hat: Hello Miss, watchyour step now. But you’re not a Republican. You’re only tired, hungry,you want out of the cold. So you give up, walk back, step into line behindthe grubby vet who hides a bag of wine under his pea coat, holds outhis grimy 85 cents, takes each step slow as he pleases, releases his coinsinto the box and waits as they chink down the chute, stakes out a seatin the back and eases his body into the stained vinyl to dreamas the chips of shrapnel in his knee warm up and his good legflops into the aisle. And you’ll doze off, too, in a while, next to the girlwho can’t sit still, who listens to her Walkman and taps her bootsto a rhythm you can’t hear, but you can see it—when she bopsher head and her hands do a jive in the air—you can feel itas the bus rolls on, stopping at each red light in a long wheeze,jerking and idling, rumbling up and lurching off again.
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.