Oh, the weather outside is...

We don't really believe we're writing these words, but we think we've been missing snow storms. After all, this is Minnesota. It is Winter. We had been suffering a "snow drought." The snowfall we've been getting has been of the inch or two variety. No more, perhaps, although we're on the northern fringe of the storm, not in the heaviest snow band area. At least the last time we checked that's where we are relative to the storm's path. So far, accumulations have been minimal but the dogs join us in enjoying being warm and dry inside.

snowfall enhances the beauty of Winter woods

Photo by J. Harrington

We walked those same dogs a little early today, before any accumulation we get amounts to much. Dogs don't much care about snow and wind if there's interesting smells to check out. Dog walkers have a very different perspective. The birds seemed to appreciate that the feeders were full. Six blue jays were visible near the front feeder at one time this morning. The most we've seen together this Winter before now was three. Add in a bright red male cardinal feeding on the white snow cover and we have an unseasonal fourth of July palette in January.

a blue jay agains the snow

Photo by J. Harrington

Some of what's falling now should melt in a day or two. Temperatures are forecast to get back above freezing on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Although we're not huge fans of snow, getting an occasional storm between melting periods seems like a better deal than the flatlined, cold, gray weather pattern we've been stuck in. Longer days, more light, bring it on, right after it stops snowing!

The Snow Storm

Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803 - 1882

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

   Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.