first snowfall, mid Autumn
Photo by J. Harrington
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Before the precipitation started, we had dug up and pot-planted some rosemary and some thyme. Seeds, several years old, we once received as a kitchen herb garden "pet" all developed mold/fungus after we planted them a few weeks ago, so they became trash. We now have basil, rosemary and thyme growing on South and West facing windowsills. (If we add some parsley and sage might Simon and Garfunkel magically appear at our door?)
Yesterday we picked up our first shares box from our Winter Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] membership. Foxtail Farm is a little bit down the road from the barn in the picture below. Western Wisconsin is a very pretty part of the world, as is the rest of the St. Croix River watershed, and we probably don't write often enough about how grateful we are to live in this area, even though it subjects us to "premature" snowfalls.
Standing Cedars Barn
Photo by J. Harrington
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We were almost certain that, several times yesterday and the day before, we saw a few bluebirds still hanging around. Today, the yard is full of juncos and snow. The adjustment from bluebirds to snowbirds within a single day is disconcerting, to put it mildly. But, to listen to some, there's no proof that this sudden, volatile change of seasons and the arrival of unseasonable snow amounts has anything to do with global warming. What can snow have to do with warming? Remember Senator Inhofe's snowball? The fact that climate scientists told us to anticipate more volatile and intense storms as climate change progresses, and we've had a number of volatile, intense storms the past few months is just a coincidence, right? Right? RIGHT? Yah, right!
First Snow, Kerhonkson
By Diane di Prima
for AlanThis, then, is the gift the world has given me(you have given me)softly the snowcupped in hollowslying on the surface of the pondmatching my long white candleswhich stand at the windowwhich will burn at dusk while the snowfills up our valleythis hollowno friend will wander downno one arriving brown from Mexicofrom the sunfields of California, bearing potthey are scattered now, dead or silentor blasted to madnessby the howling brightness of our once common visionand this gift of yours—white silence filling the contours of my life.
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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.
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