Spring, sprang, sprung!!!

The freezing rain I’ve complained about for the past few days left a diamond-sparkle coating on the crowns of trees and bushes in this morning’s sunshine. Pretty close to a literal silver lining. There’s also a lot of icy stretches still on the local township roads. That’s neither pretty nor helpful. Our driveway is icy enough that I almost skidded the Jeep into the garage frame as I returned home this morning from a visit with  the Granddaughter. Soon, but not soon enough for my taste, winter’s dregs will be gone.

pond north of the house, early March 2021

Photo by J. Harrington

The driveway is shaded so the sun’s direct rays don’t get to do much damage to the ice on it. I won’t be surprised if we don’t reach bare ground before the end of March. Will we see skunk cabbage emerge in the local wetlands before then? Will we get a long spell of unseasonably warm weather? The answer to the emergence depends on the disappearance of most of the snow. Two years ago spring arrived earlier than usual [see photo above]. It could happen again but I’m not counting on it.

Then again, a local stream that, a week ago, was invisible under snow and ice, I saw today as I drove past. That’s not something I would have suggested possible a week ago, so I’m going to use this March as a training period to focus on the good things that happen and try to let life’s annoyances wash away with the snowmelt. Remember, or discover, that Spring Is a New Beginning. Tomorrow begins meteorological spring. I can’t wait for it to begin, even if it snows tonight.

Dear March—Come in—(1320)

Emily Dickinson - 1830-1886

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—

I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare - how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—

Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial 
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—

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In spring’s anteroom

The ice covered driveway has been augmented by puddles of raindrops which will probably freeze overnight. Fortunately, tomorrow is the last day of meteorological winter, so we can see light at the end of a cold, dark, dreary, slippery tunnel and will enjoy the forthcoming light and warmth if we don’t slip, fall, and cripple or kill ourselves before spring thaw ends and the ice is gone.

whose tracks are these?

Photo by J. Harrington

The back yard is full of tracks, probably deer. It looks like someone has been taste testing the forsythia and lilac bushes. Chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, goldfinches and an occasional cardinal visit the feeders. This weather makes for tough conditions since freezing rain used to be rare in the North Country.

Once the snow is gone, the ground defrosts, and the sun comes out from behind a solid cloud bank, I’m going to want to get out and tidy up the place, but I won’t. There’s supposed to be lots of buggy critters living in the leaf piles so the leaves will, for the most part, go untouched until the end of No Mow May. That probably means I’lll have to go fishing more often until June but I’ll try to manage, heh, heh!

Meanwhile, current forecasts include the prospect of three separate one inch snow falls over the next week or ten days. That’s a solid reminder that those meteorologists might serve us better if they adjusted their start of spring until April 1. That would be fitting for several reasons.

Why Is the Color of Snow?

Brenda Shaughnessy - 1970-

Let's ask a poet with no way of knowing.
Someone who can give us an answer,
another duplicity to help double the world.

What kind of poetry is all question, anyway?
Each question leads to an iceburn,
a snownova, a single bed spinning in space.

Poet, Decide! I am lonely with questions.
What is snow? What isn't?
Do you see how it is for me.

Melt yourself to make yourself more clear
for the next observer.
I could barely see you anyway.

A blizzard I understand better,
the secrets of many revealed as one,
becoming another on my only head.

It's true that snow takes on gold from sunset
and red from rearlights. But that's occasional.
What is constant is white,

or is that only sight, a reflection of eyewhites
and light? Because snow reflects only itself,
self upon self upon self,

is a blanket used for smothering, for sleeping.
For not seeing the naked, flawed body.
Concealing it from the lover curious, ever curious!

Who won't stop looking.
White for privacy.
Millions of privacies to bless us with snow.

Don't we melt it?
Aren't we human dark with sugar hot to melt it?
Anyway, the question—

if a dream is a construction then what
is not a construction? If a bank of snow
is an obstruction, then what is not a bank of snow?

A winter vault of valuable crystals
convertible for use only by a zen
sun laughing at us.

Oh Materialists! Thinking matter matters.
If we dream of snow, of banks and blankets
to keep our treasure safe forever,

what world is made, that made us that we keep
making and making to replace the dreaming at last.
To stop the terrible dreaming.

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A hint of decolonization

In [partial] preparation for observance of spring equinox, today I bought a couple of pots of oxalis plants. The green is a nice contrast to the snow outside. It’s improbable we’ll be able too enjoy a fire in the fire pit come equinox, but I’ve reached the point where, living in the North Country, I need to do more to honor the arrival of spring, longer days, sunny skies(?), returning migrants and open, flowing waters.

oxalis, shamrock

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow, at least for a little while, will include flowing water as rain, which will then become ice. Every year spring arrives on stutter steps, some years more quickly than others, but rarely, if ever, smoothly. I may manage to avoid, or at least minimize, complaining about setbacks and focus on improvements in the weather rather than what we’ve experienced the past few weeks and anticipate over the next few days.

Since I’m tired of writing about our local weather, I’m going to share something I found online this morning. For background, I need to tell you that for several years I’ve been pondering similarities between Native American and Irish experiences under British colonialism. Today I learned I’m not the only one who thinks about such topics. The On Being Project has an interview with Margaret Noodin that includes these observations:

Noodin: Yes. Now, I knew that. I taught the Irish lit. class, last semester, which I sometimes get to do. And my friend Bairbre here, who runs our Celtic Studies center, we had some comparisons in language. And we, of course, are very biased, but we felt that Ojibwe and Irish were perhaps the most musical and lovely languages that there are. [laughs]

Ó Tuama: That’s just plain fact, Margaret. That’s not bias at all. [laughs]

Noodin: I would agree. Absolutely, right? [laughs] But we wonder too, sometimes — we joke — we’ve joked for many years, within my family, and it’s not just us. So you have a confluence of history. You have people located in a similar space on the globe and really defined in ways by where the land meets the water. So, whether you are a diaspora centered around this inland sea or whether you are an island within a sea, a lot of your metaphors are similar in the fact that you’re in this northern region. You have a seasonal similarity.

But we have things like Paisake, little beings that have red hair that potentially cause disturbances or teach people lessons. And there are so many ways where, when you get to know cultures and you can make comparison between stories, you can absolutely see that the option is either to believe that they really exist and they’re all over, in every culture, in different ways, or to somehow think that people really connected sometime, long ago; but that’s probably the least likely. I think that people have a need to understand and describe the world through describing both the real and the imagined, sometimes.

The preceding gives us an opportunity to share one of Margaret Noodin’s et. al. wonderful poems and to confess that we’ve not read as much of her work as we would like and hope to.

Meshkadoonaawaa Ikidowinan: Exchanging Words

By Kimberly Blaeser, Molly McGlennen, and Margaret Noodin

baazhigwaadiziwin—persistence

Ningii-bazhinemin, we have barely escaped

nightly, a threshold looms in the cold.

Again, we sing ourselves strong—

Anishinaabikwewag, women of history and persistence.

Observe: constellations have long illuminated patterns,

relentless stories, adizookanag,

of who we might be, noongom aawiiyaang

gemaa waa-aawiiyang, or become.

Across skies trace belonging, ezhi-dibendagoziyang

in the land of wiindigoo-cannibals, awaken the crumbling spirit.

Become swirling light, motion—where Bagonegiizhig

still lives. This ancient portal a promise.

Become the shadow others expect—aagawaatesen

hiding in significance. Like stars, anangoog, excluded.

Anyone could read this.

No matter this bitter

winter, still.

wiingashk—sweetgrass

How she stitched the rim, gashkigwaadan.

Leaf blades and needle fingers circled,

smallest curve, waaganagamod, of song—

endless like the scent.

Held, there are, atenoon, some parts

one cannot see—

but she knows, gikendaang, what they hold.

Words from bogs and marshes.

Heaven fits neatly, mii gwayak, under

the snug lid, shut tight as lips

long used to gaadood, keeping secrets

of grandmothers and crane companions.

Notes:

The authors write about the collaborative process behind this piece here. 

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Inching toward spring

The mail that was storm delayed Thursday arrived late last night. This morning I opened my first package of instructions on how to be a Druid. So far, reading it has been a delightful way to stay warm in the house, drinking coffee while the wind chill continues outside. We’ll see if I get interested enough to try to qualify for official membership at the level of Bard.

Yesterday we took another step toward the warmer seasons. I signed us up for the spring, summer and autumn shares of the Women's Environmental Institute of Amador Hill Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] program. Paying for all three seasons this far in advance truly makes it feel like we’re sharing the risks with the farmers. The only down side of this is I have to eat all my veggies for three seasons. It does work better than trying to grow our own food. I’m much more in the hunter-gatherer mode than a farming one. 

whitetail deer crossing snowy field

Photo by J. Harrington

The weather has been tough enough that this morning we had a pheasant hen feeding on the snow covered ground below the deck feeders. Thats a first in the 25 or so years we’ve lived here. Wild turkeys, yes, but this is the first pheasant visitor. Before the pheasant arrived, a whitetail deer walked across the field behind the house. Since we’re generally past the time of year when bucks shed their antlers, I’m not sure if the deer was buck or doe but, against the stark white background, s/he was really good looking.

There’s enough wind this afternoon to make cleaning the drive quite uncomfortable. Tomorrow is supposed to be both warmer and less windy. Scraping the drive can wait until then. This afternoon can be devoted to learning more about being a Bard.

What We Need Is Here

by Wendell Berry

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

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Anticipation and expectation

Next week daytime temperatures will regularly get above freezing while nights will be cold. Midweek we enter the month of March and meteorological spring. Time to start watching for maple sugaring buckets and sap lines in the local sugar bush.

sap buckets in place

Photo by J. Harrington

Those of us who really enjoy maple syrup on our pancakes and waffles cross our fingers that the days warm quickly, but not too much, so sap will continue to flow. That kind of pattern also makes for a slow but consistent snow melt that helps minimize spring flooding. I continue to believe it’s unfortunate that the snow has to melt before the ground can unfreeze, but no one asked my opinion on the design of spring. Frozen ground prevents or severely limits aquifer and groundwater recharge. So, to enjoy syrup and avoid or minimize flooding, I have to temper my desire to see all the snow gone ASAP and accept some tradeoffs. Much of life is like that.

Our snow depth ranking is above average for this time of year. I’m not sure how soon we can anticipate complete loss of snow cover, but we’re a month or more from early ice out in local lakes, so I’m guessing we’ll see the snow gone well after mid-March, say between St. Patrick’s Day and Easter. This is almost as tantalizing as the day after Thanksgiving’s expectation’s of Christmas, but the arrival of that holiday is more certain than an ice out date.

Goddess of Maple at Evening

Chard deNiord - 1952-

She breathed a chill that slowed the sap 
inside the phloem, stood perfectly still
inside the dark, then walked to a field 
where the distance crooned in a small 
blue voice how close it is, how the gravity 
of sky pulls you up like steam from the arch.
She sang along until the silence soloed 
in a northern wind, then headed back 
to the sugar stand and drank from a maple 
to thin her blood with the spirit of sap. 
To quicken its pace to the speed of sound 
then hear it boom inside her heart. 
To quicken her mind to the speed of light 
with another suck from the flooded tap.

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Is it Winter enough for ya?

I tried to surrender this morning, but no one could see my white flag through the falling, blowing, and drifting snow. Since my surrender wasn’t accepted, I returned to the garage and started the snow blower. For the second time in as many days, the entire driveway needed to be cleared of several inches of snow, plus the leavings of the township plow at the end of the drive next to the road. Another inch or so of fresh flakes have accumulated since I quit blowing. I’ll scrape with  the back blade later today or tomorrow morning.

Twin Cities Snow and Cold Index, year-to-date

This spring I will watch with glee as the snow melts and thaws take their toll on the driveway ice cover. I suspect that someone needs to adjust the elements in the index because the snow and cold don’t capture the pain and aggravation caused by winter rainfall followed by below freezing temperatures. I’m disconcerted to see that our winter so far only ranks as moderate (green). It’s certainly felt more like severe, but maybe that’s my age showing, or the missing rain plus freezing.

In the hope and belief that spring will actually arrive sometime within the next four to six weeks, my plan is to restart my morning exercises, deferred while recovering from a tooth extraction, plus relax, drink coffee, and read in the house until spring thaw is underway. Then we’ll get out and enjoy the sights and sounds of flowing water and returning migrants at the feeders and around the Sunrise River pools. If the Arctic and Antarctic are melting, Minnesota can’t be too far behind.

Late February

By Ted Kooser

The first warm day,

and by mid-afternoon

the snow is no more

than a washing

strewn over the yards,

the bedding rolled in knots

and leaking water,

the white shirts lying

under the evergreens.

Through the heaviest drifts

rise autumn’s fallen

bicycles, small carnivals

of paint and chrome,

the Octopus

and Tilt-A-Whirl

beginning to turn

in the sun. Now children,

stiffened by winter

and dressed, somehow,

like old men, mutter

and bend to the work

of building dams.

But such a spring is brief;

by five o’clock

the chill of sundown,

darkness, the blue TVs

flashing like storms

in the picture windows,

the yards gone gray,

the wet dogs barking

at nothing. Far off

across the cornfields

staked for streets and sewers,

the body of a farmer

missing since fall

will show up

in his garden tomorrow,

as unexpected

as a tulip.

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for this Lent, I’m giving up giving up

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, for those who observe. I’m not a religious person although I was raised in a major faith. Making sacrifices during Lent was part of the tradition and rituals. In my younger days, I used to give up keeping my New Year’s resolutions during Lent until I got wise enough to make a New Year’s resolution to not make New Year’s resolutions. I’ve kept that one.

It has occurred to me that the radical right is trying to wear US down, just as Putin is trying to wear down Ukraine and their supporters. Add in the third year of a pandemic, continuing failures to properly respond to climate breakdown and loss of biodiversity, increasing concentration of power and wealth in the hands of fewer and fewer oligarchs, and a long and growing list of other systemic failures (toxic train derailments and ubiquitous forever chemicals included) and it’s not hard to see how lots of intelligent, rational moderate and liberal folks can lean toward depression. If we surrender, they win. We don’t want that.

AOC is on a congressional trip to Japan. A recent email notes:

Japan is a country that not only has universal health care, not only has a bullet train public infrastructure system that is robust, not only has child care, not only cares about the environment, not only cares about cultural preservation – but is also successful. It is the third largest economy in the world. 

It’s not to say that everything is perfect here. It’s not to say that it is without its challenges. It’s not even to say that the U.S. should be just like Japan. 

But it’s saying that all of these things that we’re constantly told are impossible, are possible. They’re possible. A better world is possible. 

President Biden, in Poland after a visit to Kyiv, is reported in the Guardian, to have "accused [Putin] of ‘playing to rifts in the United States’ by raising specter of nuclear war between Moscow and west” ....

A member of Congress is proposing a divorce between conservative red and liberal/moderate blue states. That seems inconsistent with her oath to defend the Constitution.

the charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable,
a perpetual series of occasions for hope

Photo by J. Harrington

Worn out yet? Don’t be. Reread AOC’s note. “A better world is possible.” If you’re looking for some examples of how, try

• Slow Food
• Slow Water
• From What Is to What If
• Trout Unlimited
• Aldo Leopold Foundation
• Letters from an American

There are other options. Look around. First of all though, take care of yourself. You’re all we’ve got.

For the Consideration of Poets

By Haki R. Madhubuti

where is the poetry of resistance,

                     the poetry of honorable defiance

unafraid of lies from career politicians and business men,

not respectful of journalist who write

official speak void of educated thought

without double search or sub surface questions

that war talk demands?

where is the poetry of doubt and suspicion

not in the service of the state, bishops and priests,

not in the service of beautiful people and late night promises,

not in the service of influence, incompetence and academic

         clown talk?

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Damn dams, don’t damn fisheries!

 I think I’ve mentioned that I’m a Trout Unlimited member involved in fundraising and related efforts in support of removing two dams on the Kinnickinnic River in River Falls, WI. Much background on that effort can be found at the Kinni Corridor Collaborative web site.

part of Kinnickinnic River restoration

Photo by J. Harrington

Although restoration of a free-flowing Kinni is important, I don’t believe there are threatened or endangered species involved, unlike a situation involving Atlantic salmon in Maine, back in my native New England. In a message I recently received, Trout Unlimited asked:

Did you know that wild Atlantic salmon are on the brink of extinction in U.S. waters? Salmon once returned to rivers from Connecticut through Maine by the hundreds of thousands. Today, fewer than 1,000 salmon return to just a few rivers in Maine.

Our best chance to save this majestic species is to remove four aging dams on the Kennebec River. Right now, federal agencies are weighing that very question, providing what is likely our last opportunity to restore a self-sustaining run of Atlantic salmon (and other important migratory species) to the Kennebec watershed.

Please join TU in urging federal fisheries officials to save our salmon by decommissioning those dams and allowing the lower Kennebec River to flow free to the sea once again.

Learn more

More and more research is supporting the physical and mental health benefits of fishing. To attain those benefits, folks need someplace to go fishing. The Kinni offers the prospect of adding miles of Class 1 trout water in a city in a large metropolitan area, the Twin Cities. Among most fly fishers, Atlantic salmon are a prized quarry. Let’s not find ourselves bemoaning the truth of Joni Mitchell’s lyrics:

Don't it always seem to go 
That you don't know what you've got 
Till it's gone 

Elegy ["I think by now the river must be thick"]

By Natasha Trethewey

For my father

I think by now the river must be thick

        with salmon. Late August, I imagine it

as it was that morning: drizzle needling

        the surface, mist at the banks like a net

settling around us — everything damp

        and shining. That morning, awkward

and heavy in our hip waders, we stalked

        into the current and found our places —

you upstream a few yards and out

        far deeper. You must remember how

the river seeped in over your boots

        and you grew heavier with that defeat.

All day I kept turning to watch you, how

        first you mimed our guide's casting

then cast your invisible line, slicing the sky

        between us; and later, rod in hand, how

you tried — again and again — to find

        that perfect arc, flight of an insect

skimming the river's surface. Perhaps

        you recall I cast my line and reeled in

two small trout we could not keep.

        Because I had to release them, I confess,

I thought about the past — working

        the hooks loose, the fish writhing

in my hands, each one slipping away

        before I could let go. I can tell you now

that I tried to take it all in, record it

        for an elegy I'd write — one day —

when the time came. Your daughter,

        I was that ruthless. What does it matter

if I tell you I learned to be? You kept casting

        your line, and when it did not come back

empty, it was tangled with mine. Some nights,

        dreaming, I step again into the small boat

that carried us out and watch the bank receding —

        my back to where I know we are headed. 

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Happy National Love Your Pet Day!

Of course, we love our pets every day, if not every minute of the day. SiSi and Harry believe we don’t love them enough because we aren’t willing to feed them 24 X 7 X 365, whenever they’re awake. They also have some doubts about Mother Nature this week since the fresh snow on the ice-covered driveway is very slippery even if you have claws on your toes. Plus, when the snow melts and things get damp, like awhile ago, everything smells better, or at least has more smells.

SiSi (left) and Harry (right)

Photo by J. Harrington

Our two dogs help a lot at keeping me at least minimally grounded and honest, but in minus 20 wind chills and/or blowing snow, I have no tolerance for sniffing expeditions and dawdling, checking for who’s been here. We continue to have discussions about terms and conditions for dog walking. No matter how curmudgeonly I’ve been about not getting frostbite while they sniff around, all is forgiven when I fill the food dishes.

With the ice on the driveway, I’ve been dutifully wearing yaktrax on my stormtrackers. Today’s fresh snow over the existing ice promptly clogged the yaktrax and made the ice even more slippery. We, the dogs and I, barely made it back to the house in one piece (actually, in three pieces) and we’ve several more days of snowfall coming this week. All, or at least most, of us in my household are looking forward to spring when we can enjoy being out with our pets on bare ground and going for longer, more pleasant walks, at least until the deer flies arrive.

[Full disclosure: the Better Half has a couple of goldfish in a tank, but I’m not convinced they qualify as pets.]

April Is a Dog's Dream

By Marilyn Singer

april is a dog's dream

the soft grass is growing

the sweet breeze is blowing

the air all full of singing feels just right

so no excuses now

we're going to the park

to chase and charge and chew

and I will make you see

what spring is all about

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About those snowplow names!

I’m seeing more folks acknowledging high probabilities we’ll be getting 10 to 15 inches of snow, or more, this coming week. That raises the interesting question of where people are going to stack it as they plow roads and shovel steps and snow blow driveways. I’m thinking our best chance at being able to get out of the garage is to use the snow blower. But!!!, there’s a frozen-over puddle in the driveway that looks ripe for entrapping the blower if it breaks through the ice. At that point we’ll start the tractor and use a tow strap to pull the blower out of the puddle. If the tractor gets stuck, there’s the Jeep and 4wd low range. Can you see where this could be going? Do you understand why I’m praying for the storm to track well south, east, west or north of us? Alternatively, since we have plenty of coffee and reading material, the strategy may be to say “Ta hell wid it!” and just read and drink coffee until the damn stuff melts.

puddle pit trap for a snow blower?

Photo by J. Harrington

Personally, I’m inclined to blame MNDOT and their insipid Name a Snowplow contest. It’s not the premise of the contest that’s the problem. I believe the names chosen are so outrageously disrespectful that the gods and goddesses of winter have decided Minnesota must be punished. I can’t blame them but I wish they would find a way to spare those of us who ignored the contest and neither submitted a suggestion nor voted for winners.

Meanwhile, as relations between the US and China deteriorate, the Chinese are working towards a solution that might see the elimination of snowplows and ridiculous naming contests. According to a report on Slashdot:

Scientists from China's Hebei University of Science and Technology have developed an ice-melting additive for asphalt that could remain active for years....

Now, if there were a way to combine that additive with porous pavement on my driveway, I could probably get rid of the snow blower and never again be concerned about getting stuck in a driveway puddle. That would be real progress and a great way to partially adapt to climate weirding. Getting close to an inch of rain in mid-February is about as bizarre as naming snow plows.

A Little Shiver

By Barton Sutter

After the news, the forecaster crowed

With excitement about his bad tidings:

Eighteen inches of snow! Take cover!

A little shiver ran through the community.

Children abandoned their homework.

Who cared about the hypotenuse now?

The snowplow driver laid out his long johns.

The old couple, who’d barked at each other

At supper, smiled shyly, turned off the TV,

And climbed the stairs to their queen-size bed

Heaped high with blankets and quilts.

And the aging husky they failed to hear

Scratch the back door, turned around twice

In the yard, settled herself in the snow,

And covered her nose with her tail.

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Winter’s last gasp?

This morning the Better Half and I headed for the feed and grain store to get more bird food (50 lb. bag of coarse sun flower chips) and then to visit the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter. On our travels we saw a bald eagle; some early arrival swans on the snow and ice-covered pools at Carlos Avery Wildlife management Area; a whitetail deer along a country road; and a handful of individual squirrels dashing across the road at various locations. Today’s warming temperatures and blue skies have lots of critters out and about.

bald eagle, bare branches

Photo by J. Harrington

At the feed and grain store lots of customers were buying bags of grit, sand and snow melt. Every rural driveway we passed, and many township roads we traveled, are ice covered. If we get the amount of snow forecast for next week, we’re in for a big, very slippery, mess. Would that there was somewhere we could move that doesn’t have February but does have four seasons. Winter in our North Country is one month too long, too cold, too snowy, or too monotonous for lots of us.

The good news is that this is the last week of meteorological winter and the beginning of the last month of astronomical winter. So, from a meteorological perspective, this next week is winter’s last shot at us. Future snow storms in March, April or May will be spring storms and should melt soon after falling. I just wish Santa had delivered the flame thrower I asked for last Christmas. Is there such a thing as an anti-zamboni?

Winter: My Secret

By Christina Rossetti

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I;

Perhaps some day, who knows?

But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,

And you’re too curious: fie!

You want to hear it? well:

Only, my secret’s mine, and I won’t tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there’s none:

Suppose there is no secret after all,

But only just my fun.

Today’s a nipping day, a biting day;

In which one wants a shawl,

A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:

I cannot ope to everyone who taps,

And let the draughts come whistling thro’ my hall;

Come bounding and surrounding me,

Come buffeting, astounding me,

Nipping and clipping thro’ my wraps and all.

I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows

His nose to Russian snows

To be pecked at by every wind that blows?

You would not peck? I thank you for good will,

Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring’s an expansive time: yet I don’t trust

March with its peck of dust,

Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,

Nor even May, whose flowers

One frost may wither thro’ the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,

When drowsy birds sing less and less,

And golden fruit is ripening to excess,

If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,

And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,

Perhaps my secret I may say,

Or you may guess.

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The season change seesaw

If there’s no change in the forecast, and the forecast is accurate, we’re going to get more than a foot of snow over four days next week. Once again our weather confirms that, at least in the North Country, Thomas Stearns Eliot was wrong. April is not the cruelest month, it’s February, or maybe March.

late February snow is far from rare

Photo by J. Harrington

Since our driveway is currently a figurative skating rink, I’m cogitating how I’ll get traction on slippery ice for either the snow blower or tractor. Stand by for some interesting, and potentially expletive-filled postings next week. Of course, if the forecast changes radically for the better (no snow, warmer temps), we’ll promptly speculate about how soon we can expect waterfowl migrating from southern climes. Until it’s over, we’ll settle for looking out the window to see what the weather is actually doing.

I’d be less troubled by the snow forecast if we were close to seasonal temperatures. Sunday, February 26, is the day our average daily high temperature reaches 33℉. That’s the same day we get back to 11 hours of daylight. Unlike the progressive lengthening of daylight, we’ve been experiencing a roller coaster of above and below average temperatures for days. Next week it’s back below after an above normal weekend. Once the snow blowing and scraping is done, more time for reading until it all melts.

Beyond the Snow Belt

by Mary Oliver

Over the local stations, one by one,
Announcers list disasters like dark poems
That always happen in the skull of winter.
But once again the storm has passed us by:
Lovely and moderate, the snow lies down
While shouting children hurry back to play,
And scarved and smiling citizens once more
Sweep down their easy paths of pride and welcome.

And what else might we do? Les us be truthful.
Two counties north the storm has taken lives.
Two counties north, to us, is far away, -
A land of trees, a wing upon a map,
A wild place never visited, - so we
Forget with ease each far mortality.

Peacefully from our frozen yards we watch
Our children running on the mild white hills.
This is the landscape that we understand, -
And till the principle of things takes root,
How shall examples move us from our calm?
I do not say that is not a fault.
I only say, except as we have loved,
All news arrives as from a distant land. 

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Whose environment is it? Ours!

 I recently watched a presentation by a fisheries biologist regarding the fishing pressures and fish stock structure of a nearby trout stream. The essence of the presentation was that the current fishing regulations include a possession limit of 3 fish and a minimum size of 12 inches. The majority of fish in the stream are in the six to ten inch class. To improve the fishery structure [to what end?], the preference is to change the regulations to a maximum size of 12 inches and a possession limit of five fish.

trout stream? polluted? who’d know?

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve read about other fisheries where the biologists claim that an overabundance of smaller panfish precludes the ability of the habitat to produce fewer, bigger fish. I believe I understand the concepts involved but I have major doubts that the fisheries folks have clearly enough defined the problem they’re trying to solve to be confident their proposed solutions will work without generating unintended consequences in today’s world, a world in which “New research from Stockholm University found that the levels of PFAS in rainwater now exceed levels deemed safe by health and environment advisory agencies.” 

For example, recent stories about PFAS/PFOS in fish indicate more and more of our environment has become contaminated. Other articles note just how ubiquitous those contaminants have become. For example, Minnesota’s Fish Consumption Advisory [FCA] goes on for 25 pages, mostly because of mercury contamination, but we’ve been sampling for mercury much longer and probably more extensively than for PFOS. According to the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency:

PFAS testing began in Minnesota’s lakes and streams in 2004, which has led to fish-consumption advisories due to perfluorooctane sulfonic acid (PFOS) levels in fish tissue. PFOS is just one of the almost 5,000 PFAS chemicals. Continued monitoring is needed; many Minnesota lakes and streams that are potentially contaminated by PFAS have not been tested.

Please note that the FCA is issued by the Health Department, the water quality is overseen by the MNPCA and fishing regualtions are set by the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. Presumably, many other states, and the federal government, have a plethora of agencies involved in the permitting of intermedia transfer of pollutants that ultimately end up in our bodies and cause health issues for which each of us must pay for treatment. This state of affairs is yet another reason citizens should be able to petition for the termination of corporate charters so remediation costs don’t just continue as a cost of business (See, e..g., fossil fuel industry.)

If you’re reading this and you live, work or play in Minnesota, you might want to let your state legislators know how you feel about a bill to ban nonessential use of PFAS. Here’s some background that includes a link for contacting your legislators.

There It Is

By Jayne Cortez

My friend

they don't care

if you're an individualist

a leftist  a rightist

a shithead or a snake

They will try to exploit you

absorb you  confine you

disconnect you  isolate you

or kill you

And you will disappear into your own rage

into your own insanity

into your own poverty

into a word a phrase a slogan a cartoon

and then ashes

The ruling class will tell you that

there is no ruling class

as they organize their liberal supporters into

white supremacist lynch mobs

organize their children into

ku klux klan gangs

organize their police into

killer cops

organize their propaganda into

a device to ossify us with angel dust

preoccupy us with western symbols in

african hair styles

inoculate us with hate

institutionalize us with ignorance

hypnotize us with a monotonous sound designed

to make us evade reality and stomp our lives away

And we are programmed to self-destruct

to fragment

to get buried under covert intelligence operations of

unintelligent committees impulsed toward death

And there it is

The enemies polishing their penises between

oil wells at the pentagon

the bulldozers leaping into demolition dances

the old folks dying of starvation

the informers wearing out shoes looking for crumbs

the life blood of the earth almost dead in

the greedy mouth of imperialism

And my friend

they don't care

if you're an individualist

a leftist  a rightist

a shithead or a snake

They will spray you with

a virus of legionnaire's disease

fill your nostrils with

the swine flu of their arrogance

stuff your body into a tampon of

toxic shock syndrome

try to pump all the resources of the world

into their own veins

and fly off into the wild blue yonder to

pollute another planet

And if we don't fight

if we don't resist

if we don't organize and unify and

get the power to control our own lives

Then we will wear

the exaggerated look of captivity

the stylized look of submission

the bizarre look of suicide

the dehumanized look of fear

and the decomposed look of repression

forever and ever and ever

And there it is

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We shouldn't let the weather get our goats!

It is now less than two weeks until the start of meteorological spring and a little more than a month until the Vernal Equinox. As the rain has ended and the snow bypassed us, temperatures have dropped below freezing, so some of us are grasping at figurative straws because our driveways are now skating rinks and walking the dogs has become a hazardous occupation. Unfortunately, the extended temperature outlook is for below normal seasonal temperatures from next Monday through month’s end. The words volatile and uncertainty occurred in the outlook. At least February is our shortest month.

our driveway today

Photo by J. Harrington

Today I started playing with my fly fishing rods and reels. It felt really good and will feel better as I organize for the upcoming season. Maybe we’ll have ice out by July this year? I should be able to fish the rivers before then.😉  If you need some encouragement that winter will finally end, you can look forward to the Great Waters Fly Fishing Exposition in St. Paul beginning Friday, March 17, continuing through that weekend. It ends the day before Spring Equinox, so it’s timely if we can avoid a blizzard that weekend.

I haven’t yet checked today to be sure the trash and recycling cans haven’t been frozen in place. I’ll take a look after posting this. Cross your fingers for me.

300 Goats

By Naomi Shihab Nye

In icy fields.

Is water flowing in the tank?

Will they huddle together, warm bodies pressing?

(Is it the year of the goat or the sheep?

Scholars debating Chinese zodiac,

follower or leader.)

O lead them to a warm corner,

little ones toward bulkier bodies.

Lead them to the brush, which cuts the icy wind.

Another frigid night swooping down — 

Aren’t you worried about them? I ask my friend,

who lives by herself on the ranch of goats,

far from here near the town of Ozona.

She shrugs, “Not really,

they know what to do. They’re goats.”

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💖 Happy Valentine’s Day ❗💚💝

sweets for our sweeties

Photo by J. Harrington

As you go about your day, and the  rest of your life, think about today’s poem. What are we missing? Who and what waits to be found? Are we paying attention enough?

Love at First Sight

Wislawa Szymborska - 1923-2012

They’re both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they’d never met before, they’re sure
that there’d been nothing between them.
But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways—
perhaps they’ve passed by each other a million times?

I want to ask them
if they don’t remember—
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd?
a curt “wrong number” caught in the receiver?—
but I know the answer.
No, they don’t remember.

They’d be amazed to hear
that Chance has been toying with them
now for years.

Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals,
even if they couldn’t read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up.
Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhood’s thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another
beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night, perhaps, the same dream,
grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.

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Spring dreams

 It’s the eve of Valentine’s Day and the Ides of February [scroll down on the linked page]. Tomorrow is supposed to be rainy [½ an inch or more]. What kind of a mess do you think we’ll be faced with on Wednesday as temperatures drop back below freezing? Late winter and early spring in our North  Country  are as often full of problems as promises. This time the problem is we won’t get above freezing again until mid-day Saturday. Remember when studded tires were legal?

Two of the amaryllis that missed blooming for winter solstice have developed nice flower buds. It looks like they’ll be in bloom well before Easter, maybe by Ash Wednesday? Most of the tulips and hyacinths in the  downstairs bulb garden are fading. Once the roads get de-iced, we may need to consider getting something to help us maintain a reason to believe until outside begins to bloom and green after it rethaws once, or twice, or thrice, or ??? more this season.

will the dreaded dragon’s teeth return?

Photo by J. Harrington

 I was reminded earlier today that T. S. Elliot wrote, in The Waste Land, that “April is the cruellist month,”. If he had lived in Minnesota during February and March, his famous poem may well have opened differently. This transitional season leaves me feeling like a piñata, getting hit by the weather each time I turn around.

On the brighter side, I’ve been enjoying more time to read and finally got around to looking through a couple of issues of american poets. The Fall-Winter 2021 issue has a wonderful Margaret Noodin poem I want to share today. As the poet wrote, nicely linking the poem with  Black History Month:

“This poem was written after hearing Kwame Alexander and Rachel Martin talk about Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech ‘I Have a Dream’ which was inspired by Langston Hughes’ poem ‘I Dream a World.’ With all we’ve lost and learned this past year, and all that remains to be repaired, I thought perhaps we should all sit down and dream harder and more often with more clarity and infinite diversity.”
—Margaret Noodin

Nimbawaadaan Akiing / I Dream a World

Margaret Noodin

Nimbawaadaan akiing 
I dream a world 

atemagag biinaagami 
of clean water 

gete-mitigoog 
ancient trees 

gaye gwekaanimad 
and changing winds. 

Nimbawaadaan akiing 
I dream a world 

izhi-mikwendamang 
of ones who remember 

nandagikenindamang gaye 
who seek the truth and 

maamwidebwe’endamang waabang 
believe in tomorrow together. 

Nimbawaadaan akiing 
I dream a world 

izhi-biimiskobideg giizhigong 
where our path in the sky 

waabandamang naasaab 
can be seen as clearly as 

gaa-izhi-niibawid wiijibemaadizid 
the place where our neighbor once stood.

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