Called for icing

I can now report that the last trace of open water on the Sunrise River pools near County Highway 36 is gone. Interestingly, though, there's still a trace of open, flowing water at the bog-surrounded outlet to a lake near beautiful Chisago City.

some oaks hold their leaves all Winter

Photo by J. Harrington

The dogs have started collecting packed snow or ice between their pads, at which point they urge me to run faster on our way back from our walk so we can all get back into the house where it's warm and they can chew their paws in comfort. Funny how the cold and snow don't seem to create enough discomfort to keep them from wandering around and sniffing while I stand there and freeze. Try as I might, I don't really understand dogs but that shouldn't be surprising. I'm not a dog, I'm a person and I don't understand people either.

will next week's forecast "thaw" melt much?

Photo by J. Harrington

This week's local weather is practically made to order for today's honoree. It's National Cocoa Day. Normally, I limit my hot beverages to coffee but, in the spirit of the season, the snow-covered wonderland surrounding the house, and in celebration of the day, I'll enjoy a cup or so of hot chocolate or cocoa, whichever I bought, the package says "hot cocoa -- double chocolate" so I guess we're covered. (Yes, I got tiny marshmallows too.) The Better Half and the Daughter Person are likely to join in the sipping. I'm not sure about the Son-in-Law.

If, over the next week or so, I miss posting for a day or so, it's (hopefully) only because I'm getting caught up on Christmas shopping. I seem to be running even further behind this year and am lacking what has passed for my usual low level of annual motivation. If you want some insight into why, watch Annie Leonard's Story of Stuff. I've got a few ideas about experiences instead of stuff, but it'll take some time to execute them. Hence my "Heads Up!" May your problems be as paltry (not poultry, but chickenfeed gives the right impression) as mine at the moment.

Winter

By Billy Collins

A little heat in the iron radiator,

the dog breathing at the foot of the bed,

and the windows shut tight,

encrusted with hexagons of frost.

I can barely hear the geese

complaining in the vast sky,

flying over the living and the dead,

schools and prisons, and the whitened fields.

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