Easter’s moves

The Spring Equinox occurs each year within a very limited timeframe. Easter, however, can move around quite a bit. This year brought us the winter that wasn’t, until Spring, and a very early Easter. Next year (2025), Easter will be three weeks later, on April 20. I doubt any of us have any idea what to expect for weather next winter. We’re also likely to experience a number of surprises, few pleasant, during the political campaigns this year, especially with one candidate who has already attempted to overthrow the results of the election in 2020. Tell me again why he’s permitted to run for an office he’s shown no respect for. Maybe the Rapture will come and claim the bible thumping bible salesman, sometime soon?

Easter Bunny surprised by a spring snow storm

Photo by J. Harrington

The better news is we’re experiencing a slow snow melt. That allows more replenishment of groundwater than if we had a rapid melt and most of the water ran off to ditches, gutters, streams, and rivers. Much of Minnesota has been reclassified (couldn’t figure out if it’s an upgrade or downgrade) from moderate drought to abnormally dry. We still have a way to go, but, for now, we’re headed in a better direction. If you’re not familiar with Erica Gies' Water Always Wins and the Slow Water movement, I suggest you follow the link and at least check them out.

Then, in honor of Easter and spring, I call to your attention the entirely wonderful Spring Is a New Beginning. Each year about this time I remember how good it made me feel to read it to our children. Now that the children are grown, these seem to me like times when we could all use a new beginning.

Ararat

by Mark Doty

Wrapped in gold foil, in the search
and shouting of Easter Sunday,
it was the ball of the princess,
it was Pharoah’s body
sleeping in its golden case.
At the foot of the picket fence,
in grass lank with the morning rain,
it was a Sunday school prize,
silver for second place, gold
for the triumphant little dome
of Ararat, and my sister
took me by the hand and led me
out onto the wide, wet lawn
and showed me to bend into the thick nests
of grass, into the darkest green.
Later I had to give it back,
in exchange for a prize,
though I would rather have kept the egg.
What might have coiled inside it?
Crocuses tight on their clock-springs,
a bird who’d sing himself into an angel
in the highest reaches of the garden,
the morning’s flaming arrow?
Any small thing can save you.
Because the golden egg gleamed
in my basket once, though my childhood
became an immense sheet of darkening water
I was Noah, and I was his ark,
and there were two of every animal inside me.

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As life returns to the lands (and waters)

Yesterday evening we were visited by four whitetail deer in a far corner of the field behind the house. This morning the dogs and I did indeed walk to the pond north of the house. There we unintentionally flushed a pair of wood ducks from the open water. Midday today we noticed a small flock of turkeys pecking away in the same area the deer visited yesterday. Warmer weather and melting snows are bringing critters in search of food and nesting sites. Soon we can look for bud burst and nest building.

migrating wood ducks on a pond

Photo by J. Harrington

Are you familiar with the story of blind men describing an elephant? I’m at a point of thinking it applies to all our individual and collective attempts to understand and describe the reality of our existence and purpose on the earth in an expanding universe. It seems that a good part of the problems are captured in the saying about the devil is in the details. Plus, too many of us, too often, forget that there is more than one path through the woods. Not that I would ever be guilty of such parochialism!!!!

Tomorrow, for those who observe, is Easter Sunday. For all who follow the Gregorian Calendar, it’s the last day of March. Monday is April Fool’s Day and, purely coincidentally, the start of National Poetry Month. For many of us, the best times of the year lie ahead. We hope we all get to thoroughly enjoy them.

The Silent Singer

Len Roberts

The girls sang better than the boys, 
their voices reaching All the way to God, 
Sister Ann Zita insisted during those 
     practice sessions
when I was told to mouth do, re, mi,
     but to go no higher,
when I was told to stand in back 
    and form a perfect 0
        with my lips
although no word was ever to come out, 
the silent singer in that third-grade 
     class
during the Christmas Pageant and Easter 
     Week, the birth and death 
        of Christ lip-synched
            but unsung	
while my relatives, friends and parents
     praised my baritone,
     how low my voice was,
Balancing those higher, more childlike tones,
     my father said,
Adding depth, my mother said,
Thank God they had my huskiness to bring all
     that tinniness to earth,
     my great-aunt whispered,
so I believed for many years in miracles
     myself,
the words I'd never sung reaching their ears 
     in the perfect pitch, the perfect tone, 
while the others stuttered in their all-too-human
     voices to praise the Lord.

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Good Friday thoughts.

Snow is melting. Cloudy skies have some thin spots and patches of blue even. It’s almost Easter weekend. There are enough good things happening that we shouldn’t be dismayed that too many humans turn April Fool’ into a daily event. This morning I saw an add for a helpful solution to much of the aggravation and agitation triggered by living in contemporary society. There’s a helpful new drug that wasn’t developed by big pharma. Take 500 mg of fukitol, followed by a nap.

bumblebee on purple lupine

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half sent me a link this morning to a story in the Washington Post that cheered me in at least two ways:

1. the subject matter offers hope for protecting pollinators, especially bees, (and so, much of our food) and;
2. it was one of the better written news articles I’ve read in a long time.

I don’t know if this link will work, but you’re welcome to try it: https://wapo.st/4cMGQYa

By this time next week, I expect most, maybe all, of the snow to be gone and the dogs and I will again enjoy our walks down the driveway and along the road instead of treating them as a necessary chore. I bet we’ll even return to walking to the pond north of us to see if Canada geese or wood ducks have stopped to rest. I wont’t be wearing Yak-Trax or a down parka and the dogs won’t be wondering why I filled their ditch full of snow. Shortly after that, we can start watching for spring ephemerals while listening for more bird song. Spring will have arrived in more than name only.

Do you suppose local news would be more successful if they/it published and practiced more solutions journalism stories? I’m more than a little tired of reading the abundance of bad news that mentions not a bit of what to do about it. In fact, for a couple of local newspapers I check regularly for projectsI’m trying to follow, they frequently lack any in depth coverage that didn’t come from a news release. At the time we originally were heavily dependent on a free press, we barely had a functioning postal system. Now we’re back to a barely functioning postal system and have a multitude of information sources full of mis and disinformation. Whatever happened to fact checkers and copy editors?

Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself

Wallace Stevens
1879 – 1955

At the earliest ending of winter, 
In March, a scrawny cry from outside 
Seemed like a sound in his mind. 

He knew that he heard it, 
A bird's cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six, 
No longer a battered panache above snow . . . 
It would have been outside. 

It was not from the vast ventriloquism 
Of sleep's faded papier mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside. 

That scrawny cry—it was 
A chorister whose c preceded the choir. 
It was part of the colossal sun, 

Surrounded by its choral rings, 
Still far away. It was like 
A new knowledge of reality.

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Why the kids aren’t alright

 From today’s US edition of The Guardian:

• Extreme heat summit to urge leaders to act on threat from rising temperatures


• ‘Everybody has a breaking point’: how the climate crisis affects our brains


• Sinking US cities increase risk of flooding from rising sea levels


• ‘Tone-deaf’ fossil gas growth in Europe is speeding climate crisis, say activists

COMBINED WITH

• Surge of new US-led oil and gas activity threatens to wreck Paris climate goals

'NUFF  SAID [almost]

Let Them Not Say

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

Let them not say:   we did not see it.
We saw.

Let them not say:   we did not hear it.
We heard.

Let them not say:     they did not taste it.
We ate, we trembled.

Let them not say:   it was not spoken, not written.
We spoke,
we witnessed with voices and hands.

Let them not say:     they did nothing.
We did not-enough.

Let them say, as they must say something: 

A kerosene beauty.
It burned.

Let them say we warmed ourselves by it,
read by its light, praised,
and it burned.

—2014

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Mine, all mine (almost)!

Last evening, for the first time in a long while, I saw a pair of cardinals visit the feeder on the back deck. After days of clouds and flocks of dark-eyed juncos, the splash of bright color was heart-warming. Maybe it’s worth encouraging freeloading squirrels by hanging the kind of feeder preferred by cardinals (and squirrels).

cardinal pair on snowy rail

Photo by J. Harrington

Despite below freezing temperatures today, there’s enough warmth in the sun to begin melting snow, especially where there’s a dark color (e..g., tree trunks and plowed roads) to absorb and concentrate that warmth. I’m hoping most of the ground will again be bare by Easter.

We now come to a sudden transition from observations about weather to touch on an economic and environment issue that is significant here in Minnesota's Congressional District 8: mining, in particular, iron mining. There are those who have asserted that Minnesota’s mining rules and regulations are among “the most stringent in the world,” or words to that effect. And yet, to the best of my knowledge, neither Minnesota nor the mining companies that operate here, are active participants in the Initiative for Responsible Mining Assurance (IRMA), which has recently announced a webinar to review the results of audits of two iron mines in Africa. {The obvious question that occurs to me is, if Minnesota’s requirements are among the best, how would an IRMA audit of a Minnesota mine compare to those done in Africa?) Here’s an extract from an email I received yesterday:

First IRMA Audits of African Iron Ore Mines Released

Anglo American subsidiary Kumba Iron Ore's Kolomela, Sishen both achieve IRMA 75

Webinar to discuss the audits on 4 April

Today, March 27th, IRMA released independent audits of Kumba Iron Ore's Kolomela and Sishen (IRMA 75) iron ore mines in South Africa.  

IRMA 75 means the audit firm ERM-CVS verified that the operations met all critical requirements of the IRMA Standard, as well as at least 75% of the Standard’s criteria in each of the four areas: social responsibility, environmental responsibility, business integrity, and planning for positive legacies.

To learn more, join us April 4th for a webinar about the meaning of the audit results, and how the increased transparency an IRMA audit provides can be used by stakeholders to drive more responsible mining:

Many of Minnesota’s mining proponents are quick to point out that elsewhere in the world, mining doesn’t have to meet Minnesota’s standards. There’s often an uneasy silence about the recent court decisions about how the states’s regulatory agencies have enforced those standards (or not). Wouldn’t it make sense to require all mining operations in the state to participate in IRMA so we would be able to compare not just standards, but in the ground and in the community results?

Locally, MCEA is beginning to broach such questions with a special event on Monday, April 1, on

Global Mining Justice: Water, Climate, and Community Advocacy from Honduras to Minnesota

I hope you'll look into either or both of these events. As Carl Sandburg reminds us, mining is important.

IRON

By Carl Sandburg

GUNS,
Long, steel guns,
Pointed from the war ships
In the name of the war god.
Straight, shining, polished guns,
Clambered over with jackies in white blouses,
Glory of tan faces, tousled hair, white teeth,
Laughing lithe jackies in white blouses,
Sitting on the guns singing war songs, war chanties.

Shovels,
Broad, iron shovels,
Scooping out oblong vaults,
Loosening turf and leveling sod.

     I ask you
     To witness--
     The shovel is brother to the gun.

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Pondering the imponderable

When Mother Nature tries to squeeze a winter’s worth of weather into one week, some folks feel claustrophobic after the first few days of that week. Meanwhile, during our morning walk today, the dogs agreed that this weather isn’t fit for man nor beast, but wondered who’s the beast and does bff mean beast friends forever? I think snow storms four out of five days are affecting everyone. Remember the old joke about pounding one’s head against a brick wall because it feels so good when you stop?

I acknowledge that, until recently, a relatively mild and snowless winter had me less than enthusiastic about spring’s arrival. It would have been largely same old, same old... Not any more! I am so looking forward to the thaw/melt and greening because it will be such a radical change! No doubt it will take awhile, but flowers and butterflies will eventually arrive, followed by dragonflies. By then we will be somewhere around the end of May and beginning of June and I may have even completed a couple of fishing trips.

old apple tree with a single apple

Photo by J. Harrington

In the interim, I plan to read some poetry, reread Linda Hogan’s Dwellings, bake some bread, and listen for the sounds of flowing waters. I’m also debating forgoing news and social media until the majority of the human race shows signs of sanity. But if I don't check news and social media, how will I know sanity may have begun to prevail?

Gather

Rose McLarney

Some springs, apples bloom too soon.
The trees have grown here for a hundred years, and are still quick
to trust that the frost has finished. Some springs,
pink petals turn black. Those summers, the orchards are empty
and quiet. No reason for the bees to come.

Other summers, red apples beat hearty in the trees, golden apples
glow in sheer skin. Their weight breaks branches,
the ground rolls with apples, and you fall in fruit.

You could say, I have been foolish. You could say, I have been fooled.
You could say, Some years, there are apples.

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A secret spring? A spring secret?

Today is the first day of the last week of March, 2024. The full moon (Ojibwe: Snow Crust Moon; Lakota: Snow Blindness Moon) occurred at 2:00 am this morning. In our neighborhood, it was well hidden by snow clouds. Tonight the aurora may be visible well south of the Arctic Circle, but rain clouds are expected to obscure it/them. As this is typed. heavy, very wet, melting snow covers almost everything outside. More snow is expected tomorrow, after tonight’s rain. By Easter Sunday, the snow may be gone and life returned to local flora. My anticipated wander to look for, or at, emerging skunk cabbage is rescheduled for much later this week or, maybe, Easter Monday.

emerging skunk cabbage

Photo by J. Harrington

An updated drought map should be issued later this week. It’ll be interesting to see if there’s any significant change. At the moment, most of Minnesota is rated as low fire danger and much of the state doesn’t require burning permits. Where we are, everything is too wet to burn, although we have several brush piles to be reduced to ashes. Maybe next month.

Meanwhile, there’s been an unusually large number of blue jays around today. I saw more than half a dozen along the driveway after I’d cleared the snow. They’ve been flitting amongst the trees and one even arrived at the bird feeder, which is quite rare in my experience, unless it’s a tray feeder, which ours isn’t. As more and more unusual events occur, I wonder if we’re well past time to redefine “normal.”

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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End of season weather

It’s been snowing since mid-morning. Tomorrow we may get to see what six+ inches of snow looks like when it gets rained on. I’m pondering whether we might get away with the “Mother Nature left it, let her clean it up!” approach. By mid-week we should be back to daytime high temperatures in the forties and yesterdays sunshine melted much of the snow from Thursday night.

waterfowl arrived just before the storms

Photo by J. Harrington

End of season snow storms present more complex challenges than those we get in December, January and February when, most years, we can expect to get more snow before spring thaw arrives and, if we hope to get out of the garage, we need to clear the driveway. If the snow is likely to mostly disappear over the next day or two, and it’s already officially spring, why bother with snow blowing in the middle of a rain storm? Tune in tomorrow or Tuesday to learn what we decided and how Mother Nature responded.

Meanwhile, I’m picturing a number of waterfowl pairs, especially Canada geese and mallard ducks, where the hen is quacking or honking “I told you it was to early to head North. There’s no way I’m going to build a nest in this stuff. Egg laying will just have to wait until this melts.” At least the prospects for the Easter Bunny hiding eggs in the grass instead of snowbanks look good.

Audubon Warblers

By Kevin L. Cole

The Audubon warblers keep the time of their coming,

Arriving on stillness of a storm,

Their breast and backs as dark as low bruised banks of cloud,

Rumps and throats as yellow as blooms of buckwheat.

 

They throng this evening in the newly-leaved

Tender-tipped canopies nervously weaving

Through the catkins like frantic prophets

Bearing some divine prophecy of the coming spring.

 

I wait, hoping for nothing too grave:

News of ruinous lands, of cutting and swarming locusts,

Of withering vines and empty granaries,

Of fasting, weeping, and rending of garments.

 

No, I wait for lighter fare:

Perhaps a promise that the green heron will nest

On the west end of the slough and that the ironweed

And wood lily will once again together bloom.

 

This would be an ample prophecy for another year—

This and a promise to keep the time of their coming.

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A between storms lull

More signs of spring, better than spring blizzards, are appearing in the lull between storms. The Sunrise River pools were hosting several bunches of mallards, fresh from southern grounds. A tom turkey was displaying for his harem of more than a dozen hens along a nearby county road. Birdsong persists in the morning despite the fresh snow cover. If only the forecast weren’t for an additional six to twelve inches tomorrow, on top of the nine inches we got Friday, I might feel almost springy myself. Ah well, all the more to look forward to!

tom turkey: fan-tailed mating display

Photo by J. Harrington

Between a basically snowless winter and an early Easter (next weekend), my sense of spring as an emergence has been thoroughly disrupted this year. Once the latest round of snow melts, I’m promising myself a wander into the nearby wetlands to look for skunk cabbage. Marsh marigolds should show up some time late next month and trilliums after that. In the midst of tomorrow and Monday’s storm, reading about fly fishing and turkey hunting will serve as a comfortable substitute for the real things. Until Palm Sunday..., unless I get worn out clearing snow.

For the Bird Singing before Dawn

Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,
a song—and in a little while, behold:

the first glimmer comes, then a glow
filters through the misty trees,
then the bold sun rises, then
everyone starts bustling about.

And that first crazy optimist, can we
forgive her for thinking, dawn by dawn,
“Hey, I made that happen!
And oh, life is so fine.”

It’s World Water Day

We got a bunch of water in celebration of today. Unfortunately, it came as flakes, not drops, and we were the recipients of more than twice the amount that fell in most of the area. Measured on our deck and the railing, there were 9 inches of fresh snow this morning. Last night’s forecast was for 1 to 3 inches. Almost everywhere around us topped out at 4 inches. Sunday’s forecast is for an additional 10 inches. Sigh! Spring in the North Country brings blizzards before wildflowers.

the Kinnickinnic River,
a relatively clean trout stream

Photo by J. Harrington

World Water Day this year is about Water for Peace, consistent with the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals, particularly Number 6. In Minnesota, and much of the rest of the country and the world, water quality is being deteriorated, largely through human activities, much like the climate is being disrupted through human greenhouse gas pollution. Do you see a larger pattern here? At the rate we’re going, we won’t be able to colonize Planet B or it’s successors in time to save what’s left of the human race. And if the pattern continues to be consume, dispose, destroy, we’ve no business infecting the rest of the solar system or galaxy. Time to make ecocide a capital offense for countries, corporations,, and their executives?

On a brighter note, at least for now, as the snow melts and rain falls and spring springs, water willl seep into the ground and flow overland to our rivers and streams. Some of us will grab a rod and head out to see what, if anything, we can catch. I’ve been pondering how many of us would be interested in protecting access to and the quality of local waters if we didn’t fish, canoe, kayak, swim, etc. It’s been more than 50 years since the Clean Water Act Amendments of 1972 were enacted, with the goals of:

• "to make all U.S. waters fishable and swimmable by 1983;"
• "to have zero water pollution discharge by 1985;"
• "to prohibit discharge of toxic amounts of toxic pollutants".^[120]: 1

We are failing miserably and seem headed backwards from attaining those goals. Unless we make more progress, faster, we’re unlikely to attain peace in our time with those who recognize “Water Is Life.”

Water

By Ralph Waldo Emerson

The water understands 

Civilization well; 

It wets my foot, but prettily, 

It chills my life, but wittily, 

It is not disconcerted, 

It is not broken-hearted: 

Well used, it decketh joy, 

Adorneth, doubleth joy: 

Ill used, it will destroy, 

In perfect time and measure 

With a face of golden pleasure 

Elegantly destroy. 

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“Winter’s” last g(r)asp?

I know. It seems as though I keep going on about the weather, but let me provide a clear context. Winter season is officially over. It is now spring. All winter of 2023-24, our official snow total was 14.3 inches The forecast is we’ll get more than that amount over the next week or so, mixed with rain. Three months of winter exceeded by one week of spring! Gimme a break!

the back yard a year ago

Photo by J. Harrington

Fuel tanks on tractor (diesel) and snow blower (gas) have been topped off. Each has been started. Now we wait and see what comes, hoping most of the precipitation falls as rain. Most of the state is droughty and, until we get wet and green, the fire danger is moderate to high. Early this morning a bird song from a tree in front of the house could have been a territorial defense or a warning to “Get out while you can!” For that matter, the latter, if heeded, is a way of achieving the former. Clever bird.

The dogs, after an essentially snowless winter, are going to be quite disconcerted at having to cope with white stuff all over the ground as they go to take care of business, especially the short-legged beagle, if we actually get the 9 ± inches forecast for Sunday.

Since you’ve stayed with me this long, this confession may come as no surprise at all. By this time of year, almost every year, I’m like a little kid stuck in the back seat for a too long journey. No matter how wonderful the destination, in fact the more wonderful, the more frequent the whiny question: “Are we there yet? When will we get there? I’m tired!!!!” 

Spring Snow

By Linda Gregerson

A kind of counter- 

blossoming, diversionary, 

doomed, and like 

the needle with its drop 

of blood a little 

too transparently in 

love with doom, takes 

issue with the season: Not 

(the serviceberry bright 

with explanation) not 

(the redbud unspooling 

its silks) I know I've read 

the book but not (the lilac, 

the larch) quite yet, I still 

have one more card to 

play. Behold 

a six-hour wonder: six 

new inches bedecking the 

railing, the bench, the top 

of the circular table like 

a risen cake. The saplings 

made (who little thought 

what beauty weighs) to bow 

before their elders. 

The moment bears more 

than the usual signs of its own 

demise, but isn't that 

the bravery? Built 

on nothing but the self- 

same knots of air 

and ice. Already 

the lip of it riddled 

with flaws, a sort 

of vascular lesion that 

betokens—what? betokens 

the gathering return 

to elementals. (She 

was frightened 

for a minute, who had 

planned to be so calm.) 

A dripline scoring 

the edge of the walk. 

The cotton batting blown 

against the screen begun 

to pill and molt. (Who 

clothed them out of 

mercy in the skins 

of beasts.) And even 

as the last of the 

lightness continues 

to fall, the seepage 

underneath has gained 

momentum. (So that 

there must have been a 

death before 

the death we call the 

first or what became 

of them, the ones 

whose skins were taken.) 

Now the more- 

of-casting-backward-than-of- 

forward part, which must 

have happened while I wasn't 

looking or was looking 

at the skinning knives. I think 

I'll call this mercy too.

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Cast your bread upon the seasons

In celebration of Spring’s official arrival, I baked scones this morning and finished off much of what remained of the St. Patrick’s Day Irish soda bread. It was a very pleasant start to the day and the season. I wonder what would be appropriate for honoring the summer solstice, berry scones? Feel free to offer suggestions in the comments.

The buds on the maple trees in front of the house have swollen noticeably but I suspect the return of cold and snow will slow down bud burst and leaf out. A few ducks have shown up on the Sunrise River pools, but no signs of a major northbound migration yet. If we’re lucky, the snow and rain we’re supposed to get over the next week could actually mark the start of seasonal spring weather and a return to gradually warming temperatures with rain showers come April.

rustic, artisan, sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

Soda bread baking supplanted my rustic, artisan, sourdough bread efforts for the past few weeks. Time to freshen and feed (feed and freshen?) my starter and get back to it. The loaf that came out of the oven two or three weeks ago included about a third of the total flour amount from King Arthur’s regeneratively-grown climate blend flour and two thirds+ bread flour. The regen flour brought a nice nutty flavor to the bread. Now I want to see if I can increase the sour in sourdough, although I believe I’m the only one in the family that likes it that way, I haven’t tried such in quite a while. I think I recall a section in Sourdough by Science on making dough sourer. I’ll take a look after this is posted.

I feel as though, after our non-winter, followed by a wintry start to spring, we’re kind of in a holding pattern. I accept that it could be worse, but it could also be better. That’s something to look forward to.

An Earth Song 

Langston Hughes
1901 – 1967

It's an earth song,—
And I've been waiting long for an earth song. 
It's a spring song,—
And I've been waiting long for a spring song. 
    Strong as the shoots of a new plant 
    Strong as the bursting of new buds
    Strong as the coming of the first child from its mother's womb. 
It's an earth song, 
A body song, 
A spring song, 
I have been waiting long for this spring song. 

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Welcome, Spring?

Locally, Spring begins at 10:06 pm today. I’m pretending that doesn’t really count because it’s such a small percentage of the day so late in the day. Tomorrow is my first real day of spring, but not the first real spring day. That was some weeks ago. Got it?

Here’s the Weather Underground forecast for the beginning of Spring(?)!

10 day weather forecast

Snow on Thursday, Friday, maybe Saturday, 9.6 inches on Sunday, another 6 on Monday and 2.4 Tuesday. If ever I’ve hoped a forecast was wrong..! Just this morning the Better Half pointed out the green leaves emerging in the front garden and yard. I can easily envision them shaking off a three or four inch spring snowfall, but something approaching a foot and a half isn’t going to melt overnight or in a day or two. We are looking at (but not forward to) validation of a Minnesotan assessment of our almost snowless winter: “We’ll pay for this!”

I started the tractor yesterday, just to be sure the back blade is available. Tomorrow we’ll check on the snow blower and the diesel and gas supply. Maybe if enough of us show we’re prepared, Mother Nature will decide it’s not worth the trouble to harass us.

I don’t know about you, but each day I wish more and more the world would start making sense again. Then, again, maybe it rarely has:

If—

By Rudyard Kipling

(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

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Watch out for the Equinox, Vernal!!

I hope everyone, or at least the good folks, had a Happy St. Patrick’s Day and enjoys the first day of Spring tomorrow (local time) or Wednesday (UTC). To celebrate the arrival of Spring, the weather forecast calls for a cumulative foot or so of snow beginning later this week. I’m glad I left the back blade on the tractor and haven’t put away the winter parka yet. Sigh!!! But we need the moisture.

is this what Spring 2024 will bring?

Photo by J. Harrington

The dogs got their annual check-up at the vet’s this morning. A few weeks ago, I found one tick on me and spring brings mosquitoes (eventually) and the possibility of heartworms. The monthly tick and heartworm pills start later this month, probably after the snow melts.

In the present moment, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, but the mid-afternoon windchill is 24℉. Nevertheless, one of the folks up the road apiece just reported a bear on their patio. Some things are acting seasonally, but it looks like it would make as much sense to anticipate either the spring or summer weather patterns as to guess the next national political or economic event.

At least I’m sitting in a reasonably warm house, with two reasonably healthy dogs, one reasonably healthy spouse, and the start of a list of presents to be requested for an up coming birthday and father’s day. Things could be worse. I’m not trying to cover collateral for a half a billion dollar bond with a reputation for not paying my bills hanging around my neck.

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón
1976 – 

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

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May you enjoy the luck of the Irish

The Irish soda bread has been baked, and partially consumed. Corned beef and cabbage are on the back burners of the stove. I’m wearing a dark green chamois shirt over a light green t-shirt over jeans over dark green socks and olive shoes. When I finish posting this, the latest Altan CD will be set to play on the stereo system. St. Patrick’s Day even brought a few snow showers this morning to remind us that we’re in the North Country, not on the Emerald Isle, more’s the pity.

I’ve been skimming through internet material on fly-fishing in gleeful anticipation of warmer, less windy, days soon to be spent along a local trout stream where I hope to enjoy “the luck of the Irish” as I watch the greening of the countryside around here. With the temperatures forecast for this week coming, I’m grateful and lucky to have a couple of warm, Irish fisherman’s knit sweaters to wear and expect to wait for the greening to prevail.

soon our trees will again begin wearing their green

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re at a time of year when normal high temperatures reach the mid-40s as night-time lows drop into the upper 20s. That’s pretty much what next week looks like, with mixed precipitation late in the week. After all, we’re rapidly nearing the “April showers” time of year. Sounds good to me. Now, please enjoy an Irish poem about trout fishing. It says much about why we spend the time we do trout fishing or wishing we were. Apples of silver or gold are magical and we are lucky to have an opportunity to pluck them.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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On St. Patrick’s Day eve

If I spend too much time staring at the treetops tossing in the tumults of wind, I could develop a case of motion sickness. A windy, gusty March day, that’s close to classic, makes me glad I have enough sense to keep the dragon kite in the house until more temperate breezes prevail. It also makes me look forward to flying that kite someday soon and wonder if it’s time to reread LeGuin’s EarthSea cycle.

Are you familiar with Gogi Grant's recording of Restless Wind? Does March have more than one meaning? It is usually a restless month and ....?

wearing of the green: shamrocks

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve experienced enough unsettled weather, politics, public health and environmental change over the past several years to make those of US with any degree of sensitivity unsettled ourselves, to varying degrees. Meanwhile, I’ve not yet gone looking to see if the current drought has affected the emergence of skunk cabbage. Red osier dogwoods in nearby wetlands are deepening their colors on the usual seasonal schedule. Coarse grass blades along the road ditch are greening and growing. Yesterday we saw a soaring eagle that might have been migrating North or might be a local just stretching its wings. We’ve no way to know at this time of year.

The University of Minnesota has a Season Watch resource about Minnesota's phenology. It’s worth at least a look, maybe more. I don’t think it has a section on dragons, though.

Tomorrow we’ll begin our St. Patrick’s Day celebration by baking a loaf of Irish soda bread and listening to the latest album by Altan. For yet another year I’ll wax nostalgic about my younger days and marching in the parade in Boston, where the weather is likely to bring showers tomorrow, a not unfamiliar condition during that parade.

St. Patrick’s Day

By Eliza Cook

St. Patrick’s Day! St. Patrick’s Day!

Oh! thou tormenting Irish lay—

I’ve got thee buzzing in my brain,

And cannot turn thee out again.

Oh, mercy! music may be bliss

But not in such a shape as this,

When all I do, and all I say,

Begins and ends in Patricks’s Day.

Had it but been in opera shape,

Italian squall, or German scrape,

Fresh from the bow of Paganini,

Or caught from Weber of Rossini,

One would not care so much—but, oh!

The sad plebeian shame to know

An old blind fiddler bore away

My senses with St. Patrick’s Day.

I take up Burke in hopes to chase

The plaguing phantom from its place;

But all in vain—attention wavers

From classic lore to triplet quavers;

An “Essay” on the great “Sublime”

Sounds strangely set in six-eight time.

Down goes the book, read how I may,

The words will flow to Patrick’s Day.

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A touch of sanity?

Back in the days when I was in school learning Latin, dei in that language translated into “of god” in English. I suspect it’s coincidental that in contemporary society, DEI stands for Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. As I look at much of my email in-basket these days, I wonder if the basic concept would be substantially improved if it were broadened to include the urban / rural split. Here’s one example from the Rural Assembly:

Rural health disparities 

Access to quality healthcare is a fundamental right that every citizen deserves. However, individuals living in rural areas often face significant challenges in obtaining the healthcare they need. 

I doubt it would come as a surprise to anyone, urban or rural or any other demographic category, to be informed that our whole health system is broken and looking only at an urban / rural disparity could be counterproductive since it doesn’t encompass the whole system that requires changing. Similar observations could be made about our agricultural system, our education system, our economy, our government and especially, our tax system. WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER!!!! Those who have US at each other’s throats benefit by keeping US divided. To a great extent, we should paraphrase a key concept from a prior presidential election: “It’s the system, stupid!!”

time for the dawn of a new day?

Photo by J. Harrington

There’s another old saying we would be wise to remember, as expressed in Latin: Quos Deus vult perdere, prius dementat (literally: Those whom God wishes to destroy, he first deprives of reason). Popularly stated in English as “Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.” That suggests we might want to tone down getting mad at each other to solve some of our common problems, like being taken to the cleaners by the top 1% and corporations who fail to pay their fair share of taxes.

Instead of trying to solve problems with the blunt instrument of law, perhaps we could try a combination of communication, cooperation, common sense, and shunning (boycott) or avoiding who and what we disagree with, instead of relying on judges, juries, lawyers, cops and politicians.

Do not be ashamed

by Wendell Berry

You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.

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Donnie, Prince of Orange: Ruler by divine right? God forbid!

I just read a scary story in the LA Times: Is Donald Trump a new King David? Ask California’s right-wing Sons of Liberty The fact that a number of Americans think along the lines in the article is what I find most scary. I thought the Divine Right of Kings was eliminated centuries ago, but it looks frighteningly like The Donald might be trying to bring it back. Have you read the Project 2025 manifesto? “The Mandate states that "freedom is defined by God, not man."^[13] That's almost as bleak as Kris Kristofferson’s wonderful line from Me and Bobby McGee: “Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose” 

LeGuin: Divine Right of Kings quote

One of my favorite writers, Ursula K. LeGuin, has offered a much more positive perspective on freedom, embedded in an equally concerning warning in her speech at the National Book Awards years ago. That  speech was the source of the quote above. Please go read the whole thing.

Minnesota once had a US Senator who could, from time to time, be infuriating, but he was a real human being. We need to elect more politicians who believe, as Paul Wellstone did, that: “We all do better when we all do better.” Remember, we can’t all be first but we can all do better. Now, ask yourself, if monarchy is so great, why isn’t the United States still a British colony.

Freedom

By Jill McDonough

I talk to the students in jail about freedom, how in America

we obsess over it, write it over flags on T-shirts, spread

it around under eagles. It has something to do with guns

and fireworks, Harley-Davidsons, New Hampshire, living free

until you’re dead. I tell the students I think the people

fetishizing freedom don’t mean it. That they really mean

look over here, away from all the slavery

we did, away from all the jail! I tell them they

are the experts, ask them to write what freedom means:

privacy is freedom and if  you feel held back, afraid

to do something, you’re not completely free.   No fear

of  loss. No fear of  hunger, no fear of  pain.   A body

to call my own, a voice driven by my own mind.

The security of a dry, warm place to sleep.   To own

my own time left here.   Being able to hold my son

at night.   Showering in private.   Freedom to me

is having the choice to walk away from a fight. Freedom

a work in progress. Everyday freedom, the real work for us all.

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