It’s snowing still. Again! It’s snowing again. Still! At least that situation is tempered by the observation that a second jonquil has opened in the bulb planter, with more to come. Sixty (60) days until Spring Equinox! Not quite 6 weeks until meteorological spring. That’s when, approximately, snowflakes become drops and drips and flow into or over the ground feeding aquifers and brooks and creeks and wetlands. Can you tell I’m not really a winter person?
Groundhog Day is two weeks from today. Will Phil see his shadow? Let’s hope not. It would mess up the Celtic celebration of Imbolc [their start of spring]. I may go with that celebration to reinforce my Irish heritage. If the United Nations, or Congress, or the Minnesota legislature were earning their keep, they’d pass a law that mandates the duration of winter is inversely proportional to its intensity. Actually, maybe Republicans will pass such legislation in a broader form and claim they solved climate breakdown.
see any nests of white-eyes?
Photo by J. Harrington
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Yes, winter has affected my judgement and thought processes. Plus, I’m still recovering from the workout of clearing lots of slush from the driveway earlier this week. My slow recuperation reminds me of the old joke “I’m not the man I used to be, never was.” Winters aren’t what they used to be either.
White-Eyes
By Mary Oliver
In winterall the singing is inthe tops of the treeswhere the wind-birdwith its white eyesshoves and pushesamong the branches.Like any of ushe wants to go to sleep,but he's restless—he has an idea,and slowly it unfoldsfrom under his beating wingsas long as he stays awake.But his big, round music, after all,is too breathy to last.So, it's over.In the pine-crownhe makes his nest,he's done all he can.I don't know the name of this bird,I only imagine his glittering beaktucked in a white wingwhile the clouds—which he has summonedfrom the north—which he has taughtto be mild, and silent—thicken, and begin to fallinto the world belowlike stars, or the feathersof some unimaginable birdthat loves us,that is asleep now, and silent—that has turned itselfinto snow.
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