Is Winter settling in already? #phenology

One of the reasons clichés become clichés is they often contain a large element of truth. So, "Winter's icy fingers continue to close around what open water remains." The flocks of geese today were sitting on ice next to the open river channel flowing through the Carlos Avery pools on the Sunrise river. The large ponds / smaller lakes in the area are now covered with ice, but I wouldn't recommend walking on it for some time yet, even though we've reached a point in the year when all looks and is persistently cold.

marshes are looking as cold as they feel

Photo by J. Harrington

(We finally started to wonder who the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area is named for. According to Wikipedia, "Carlos Avery (1868–1930), was an American newspaper publisher and politician in the state of Minnesota. Avery is best remembered as a long time chief of the Minnesota Game and Fish Commission and was named the first Commissioner of the Game and Fish Commission when that position was created in August 1915.")

Despite the fact that meteorological Winter is still more than three weeks away, Winter seems to have settled in for the season. Next week's warmer forecast doesn't look like it will loosen that icy grip by very much or for very long. A "new normal" in Minnesota is looking a lot like the old normal as we experienced it when we moved here several decades ago. At least we're seeing some sun for the second day in a row. Cold but cheery, that's us!

In another ten days, we will have reached out fifth birthday at My Minnesota. So far, we've only missed posting on 6 or so of the more than 1800 days since we started. Today's going to be a short one because our arm is sore from this morning's flu shot. It's supposed to be a tough season for the flu, so, if you haven't already, go get your shot, and be sure to tell the nurse you want a Snoopy band-aid.

Thin Ice

Ellen Doré Watson

Reedy striations don’t occlude the beneath—
earthy mash of leaves, flat pepper flakes, layered,
tips protruding, tender-desolate above a mirror
surface, gently pressing on horse-mane, nest material,
tickle-brush, fringe. Buff block-shapes further down,
ghost-bits of green-green, a lone leaf burned white.
My thrown stone skitters on ice. The next, larger,
plunks through and for a moment I am a violator
but then I see it opened a bubble cell, a city,
a lesion, a map—the way in cold and luminous.

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