Observing January

How often have you studied a snow covered field and decided that it was empty, void of interest? Aldo Leopold would have us look more thoughtfully. We discovered the accuracy of his comment just before the recent January thaw melted much of the snow cover near the house.

source: Aldo Leopold Foundation

We know that, under the snow, under the grasses covered by snow, and sometimes underground in tunnels, we have moles and voles and shrews and insects and worms and bacteria and.... We've seen the moles or voles or shrews as they've emerged to feed on sunflower seeds knocked down or dropped by the birds and squirrels at the feeders. Mice continue to be caught in the traps we set along the foundation's perimeter inside the lower level and the garage. The mice would be much better off if they'ed settle for the sunflower seeds. 🌻

Look carefully. See the tracks and tunnel tops?

Photo by J. Harrington

Another way that we know we have an abundance of small rodents (in addition to pocket gophers and squirrels) is that sometimes the conditions are such that their tracks and tunnels are quite visible. We had such conditions the first week of this month. That's when we took the photo below. The location is the area behind the garage and kitty-corner from the sunflower seed feeders hanging on the house's rear deck. As the snow melted, the tunnels imploded (collapsed?) leaving behind what look like paths worn into the snow by fairies or elves.

Sigurd says not good-bye but "Au revoir!"

Photo by J. Harrington

Sigurd has returned to his place north of Ely until Christmas season comes again. We'll miss him, his canoe, and his breath of fresh air from the North Country. Meanwhile, we've a new version of artisan sourdough bread in the oven and have to sign off for now. Some of you might have been expecting a rant in response to last nights broadcast from the Oval Office. Read today's poem to learn why there's no rant here. We're trying a new approach with this new year.

Good Bones

Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

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