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-afternoonthe snow is no morethan a washingstrewn over the yards,the bedding rolled in knotsand leaking water,the white shirts lyingunder the evergreens.Through the heaviest driftsrise autumn’s fallenbicycles, small carnivalsof paint and chrome,the Octopusand Tilt-A-Whirlbeginning to turnin the sun. Now children,stiffened by winterand dressed, somehow,like old men, mutterand bend to the workof building dams.But such a spring is brief;by five o’clockthe chill of sundown,darkness, the blue TVsflashing like stormsin the picture windows,the yards gone gray,the wet dogs barkingat nothing. Far offacross the cornfieldsstaked for streets and sewers,the body of a farmermissing since fallwill show upin his garden tomorrow,as unexpectedas a tulip.
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