It’s out and poke about time

This may be (one of) the nicest February days ever in the North Country. Blue skies, sunshine, temperatures in the mid-40’s, little breeze and lots of melting have historically been rare during this month. Perhaps not so in the future. I hope and pray we don’t end up with more freezing rain instead of snow in our winter patterns.

time to look for British soldier lichen?

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve already gotten antsy to get out and poke about. That directly conflicts with feeling catlike lazy and wanting to curl up in a warm sunny spot and, although not as much, with reactivating my sourdough artisan bread baking cycle. I can sometimes multi-task but only in one place at a time. I’ve got a couple of pounds of King Arthur Climate Blend regeneratively grown flour I want to try out. Plus, the local flour mill, Sunrise Flour Mill, has some new products from heritage wheat I want to check out. A long, slow, spring this year may be just what I need to fit in all my play time. Wonder what we’ll get.

The dogs and I enjoyed an early morning peek at the almost full, ivory-colored, moon today. It’s almost beautiful enough to make it worthwhile to get up and out a little after 4 am. You’re probably thinking I’ve been reading too much Ben Franklin if that’s when I get up. (“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”) I wonder if Ben had dogs with large stomachs that needed feeding and small bladders that needed emptying.

I’m not sure how I ended up on his distribution list, but I’m glad I did. A Vermont legislator, Tristan Roberts, newsletter yesterday makes me, and the Better Half, wonder if we could convince him to run for president. You can get a feel for what we’re talking about here. I wish Minnesota had a bunch of legislators that think like him.

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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