Like the old days

Yesterday's snow certainly "freshened" the landscape. The new snow makes it obvious that the squirrels haven't yet been at the bird feeder in front of the house, but what looks like a couple or three whitetails checked the pear tree behind the house during the night.

Winter deer tracks under pear tree

Photo by J. Harrington

The combination of fresh snow, blue skies and sunshine reminds me of the Minnesota winters I used to know. The Winter Misery Index, I think, should be adjusted to include the number of cloudy days. I admit we don't have to shovel cloudiness, but neither does it help my normally sunny(?) disposition. At the moment, the wind seems to have died down and the sun is shining. Time for me to go blow last night's snow out of the driveway before it gets all driven over and packed down. Here's a reminder of how cheery our Winter woods can look when the sun is shining.

Sun-dappled Winter woods

Photo by J. Harrington

The Double Leash

By Katharine Coles 

Blizzard to lilac. Dandelion

to leaf. Endless

variation of seasons I note

in passing, smells

I cannot smell: rotting

gardens, feces, musk of cat.

                                              These two      

run in front of me, golden

shoulder to patchwork, heads

lifted or lowered into

scent, tongues lolling. Ears

damp with their own

spittle and each other's

tell me, tethered a pace behind,

their journey's epic: tipping

forward to the familiar or

stranger's distant yap; angling

to my breathing, whispered

praise, my slightest

suggestion.

                                              Ignored.

                                                          The shepherd

throws herself into

any whirring wheel, to herd

the neighbor's tractor mower or

the UPS truck's packets

home; pulling her back,

the golden's oblivious

ballast, instinct heading

always for the gutter's

deepest puddle, her own way

within the forked leash's

one-foot range. As we pass,

the clans set up

their barking, as if we

were news, gathering center

of a congenial warning

din—mine answer with

disturbances of pace, an extra pull

or lollop, grins thrown

slant-eyed over shoulders

until one hears a call

she can't ignore, surrenders

to baying's ferocious

joy moving through

muscle and bone. Moving

storm, storm's eye: happy

universes whirl in their skins

as I do in mine. Unknowable,

their fate. Mediums between

foreign principalities, they're tied

to me, to each other, by my will,

by love; to that other realm

by song, and tooth, and blood.

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