Spring, as rare as a black swan? #phenology

The thermostat reads 71℉, but it doesn't feel that warm inside. That probably has something to do with an outside temperature around -1℉ and a windchill about -10℉. Punxsutawney Phil says 6 more weeks of Winter. We say we'll be grateful if that's all there is, although, even though Phil saw his shadow last year, Spring came early.

late February 2017 - swans, geese and open water at Carlos Avery

Photo by J. Harrington

It's no doubt a sign that we've lived in this cold North Country too long that, instead of sensibly pulling a blanket over ourselves and sleeping until warmer weather arrives, this afternoon we're going looking for open water and swans. The Better Half is coming along to serve as navigator, and we may even check out some trout fishing locales if the opportunity presents itself.

For several years we've been coming across occasional mentions of overwintering swans on the St. Croix, near where the Willow River enters. Today we're going to see if we can find any. We're also going to test for some routes to a few of western Wisconsin's trout streams. Instead of complaining about the cold, or hiding from it, we'll bundle up, turn up the heater in the Jeep, and go exploring. If nothing else, it'll get us away from the news and social media, each of which tends to make our blood run cold these days.

According to the National Phenology Network, Spring this year is running noticeably behind last year's arrival for most of the country. We're not sure if volatility in temperature patterns is an indicator of climate change, but we've noticed a roller coaster effect over the past few weeks highs and lows. Maybe a slow start will be offset by a rapid warming? Hope lives eternal.

                     Mailboxes in Late Winter

By Jeffrey Harrison

It’s a motley lot. A few still stand

at attention like sentries at the ends

of their driveways, but more lean

askance as if they’d just received a blow

to the head, and in fact they’ve received

many, all winter, from jets of wet snow

shooting off the curved, tapered blade

of the plow. Some look wobbly, cocked

at oddball angles or slumping forlornly

on precariously listing posts. One box

bows steeply forward, as if in disgrace, its door

lolling sideways, unhinged. Others are dented,

battered, streaked with rust, bandaged in duct tape,

crisscrossed with clothesline or bungee cords.

A few lie abashed in remnants of the very snow

that knocked them from their perches.

Another is wedged in the crook of a tree

like a birdhouse, its post shattered nearby.

I almost feel sorry for them, worn out

by the long winter, off-kilter, not knowing

what hit them, trying to hold themselves

together, as they wait for news from spring.

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