Seasonal ponderings

I won’t share pictures because they’re too ugly, but I’m astounded at how our heated bird bath can grow deep olive algae during our cold winter. Of course, the birds using it as a latrine is undoubtedly  a contributing factor. Anyhow, it’s clean again and refilled with fresh water in time for our next cold spell. (The red squirrels find the open water source very convenient too.)

sometimes food is more important than water

Photo by J. Harrington

We also took advantage of today’s warmer temperatures to replace the mouse repellant packets in the tractor after we returned home from getting an overdue oil change for the Jeep. The dogs seem to agree with me about warmer temperatures being far preferable to those under 20℉. The snowmobilers who’ve been riding the ditches at night this week probably have a different view of the matter.

I had a very pleasant surprise while the Jeep was being worked on. One of the techs noticed my license plate and we started talking about local poets and themes. I probably need to rearrange several of my preconceptions and stereotypes, because that conversation, in that location, I would have figured to be as likely as winning the powerball. Over the years I’ve read a theory that stereotypes exist because we humans don’t have, or want to take, the time to judge each individual encounter separately. I can understand what passes for reasoning behind that perspective, but wonder if we don’t lose more than we gain by being efficient more than effective.

It’s the time of year for peace and good will. Maybe one way to increase those qualities is to withhold judgement for a time instead of jumping to conclusions. But, as with so many varieties of good advice, I won’t be surprised if it’s easier written than lived.

White-Eyes

By Mary Oliver

In winter 

    all the singing is in 

         the tops of the trees 

             where the wind-bird 

with its white eyes 

    shoves and pushes 

         among the branches. 

             Like any of us 

he wants to go to sleep, 

    but he's restless— 

         he has an idea, 

             and slowly it unfolds 

from under his beating wings 

    as long as he stays awake. 

         But his big, round music, after all, 

             is too breathy to last. 

So, it's over. 

    In the pine-crown 

         he makes his nest, 

             he's done all he can. 

I don't know the name of this bird, 

    I only imagine his glittering beak 

         tucked in a white wing 

             while the clouds— 

which he has summoned 

    from the north— 

         which he has taught 

             to be mild, and silent— 

thicken, and begin to fall 

    into the world below 

         like stars, or the feathers 

               of some unimaginable bird 

that loves us, 

    that is asleep now, and silent— 

         that has turned itself 

             into snow.

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