As daylight grows

The sun is making one of her infrequent January appearances today. For the second time this year we’ve noted that her rays carry enough warmth to melt around the edges of the blacktop where it’s not covered by snow or ice. That’s enough to perk me up but not yet enough to make my heart sing.

a pileated woodpecker feeding on suet

Photo by J. Harrington

The turkey hens were back feeding behind the house this morning. The pileated woodpecker tried the refilled suet feeder and didn’t like the swaying caused by a medium sized bird, like a pileated woodpecker, landing on it. We’ll see if the bird adapts (adjusts?) as others of the species have. [see above]

The extended weather forecast for Groundhog Day at Punxsutawney, PA is for partly cloudy. Some of us will be on pins and needles hoping Phil doesn’t see his shadow. That may be the only circumstances and time I’d find cloudy weather in winter acceptable. Then, again, Phil’s record isn’t the best and it is more than six weeks from Groundhog Day to Spring Equinox.

I’m slowly accepting that seasonal change is inevitable and if it’s not happening as quickly as I’d like, or what has been normal, eventually warmth will return and snow will melt. If you think five year olds can be tough waiting for Santa, try me waiting for outside temperatures to approach 60℉.

Cold Spring

By Lawrence Raab

The last few gray sheets of snow are gone,

winter’s scraps and leavings lowered

to a common level. A sudden jolt

of weather pushed us outside, and now

this larger world once again belongs to us.

I stand at the edge of it, beside the house,

listening to the stream we haven’t heard

since fall, and I imagine one day thinking

back to this hour and blaming myself

for my worries, my foolishness, today’s choices

having become the accomplished

facts of change, accepted

or forgotten. The woods are a mangle

of lines, yet delicate, yet precise,

when I take the time to look closely.

If I’m not happy it must be my own fault.

At the edge of the lawn my wife

bends down to uncover a flower, then another.

The first splurge of crocuses.

And for a moment the sweep and shudder

of the wind seems indistinguishable

from the steady furl of water

just beyond her.

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