Goodbye and good riddance!

Some minutes ago, today’s raindrops turned into snowflakes. They are among the last of the season, since Monday is Spring Equinox, but probably not the last until summer. This is a winter I will not be sorry to see end. We’ve reached the 8th snowiest winter on record for our area and that makes it hard to accept the reports that we’re experiencing global warming which affects Minnesota’s winters more than our summers. It almost comes down to who are we going to believe, the scientists or what we see out the window. Speaking of which, here’s a picture of the owl that’s been visiting, perched on the railing of the deck stairs landing. Would that we were all that wise and able to hang on ’til the current storms blow over.

barred owl perched in snow

Photo by J. Harrington

But then, (Isn’t there almost always one of those?) it’s been reported to have been a winter of poor ice in many locations. Those reporting poor ice conditions obviously haven’t visited our driveway. This may be the snowfall that we decide to let melt instead of clear from our drive. After a cold weekend, we’re forecast to reach the 40's all of next week, but (there we go again) it depends on how much accumulation we end up with. If it’s much more than an inch, we’ll scrape and/or blow snow to expedite getting the drive back to bare dirt as soon as possible.

I’ve noticed more and more during the past week or ten days that I’m far from the only one grumpily commenting on the extent and duration of the winter almost past. Although I don’t have numbers handy, I suspect that this winter has had more cloudy days than usual. That, plus state, national and world events is enough exacerbate Seasonal Affective Disorder with gloominess due to continuing COVID, irrational Republicans, bank failures, stock market volatility, and a level of social, cultural and economic contentiousness not seen for awhile.

Last Snow

By Heid E. Erdrich

Dumped wet and momentary on a dull ground

that’s been clear but clearly sleeping, for days.

Last snow melts as it falls, piles up slush, runs in first light

making a music in the streets we wish we could keep.

Last snow. That’s what we’ll think for weeks to come.

Close sun sets up a glare that smarts like a good cry.

We could head north and north and never let this season go.

Stubborn beast, the body reads the past in the change of light,

knows the blow of grief in the time of trees’ tight-fisted leaves.

Stubborn calendar of bone. Last snow. Now it must always be so.

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